I Choose To Fight
by BigRedMachineUK
Summary: *CHAP 16 UP* A man wrongfully convicted for the murder of his girlfriend is forced to fight for survival in the most notorious and most dangerous penitentiary in the country. AU. CM Punk, Mickie James, Randy Orton, Melina, Morrison, Cena, Batista, MVP, others.
1. Injustice Is Served

_**A/N: After watching season 1 of Prison Break (all over again, by the way), Death Race and The Shawshank Redemption in the space of two weeks, this is the end product of all the ideas that swirled through my head afterwards. It's another AU story and I really hope you enjoy it. Happy reading!**_

_**P.S. Story title derived from the song "Weathered" by Creed. Cool track, reminds me of the old WWF Attitude days. *sigh***_

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_**1. Injustice is Served**_

"Sweetie? I'm home."

He didn't realize how good it felt saying those words again until he actually said them. In fact, he hadn't said those words in a while, but it did feel good to say them. He and his girlfriend were going through a rough patch at the moment. She cheated on him and he left, but he took her back. He had been angry, but he knew he was going to go back to her, because despite everything that had happened between them, he loved her and he missed her terribly. Two months was more than enough time to be apart from her. They finally talked things over and agreed that they would try to work things out. It was much easier said than done, but he made a promise and he intended to keep it. He was willing to forgive her. He loved her that much. Now he was going to make her a very special dinner to show her that he meant it.

The door to the house they shared was open. It was not unusual; she tended to do that a lot and he was the one that ended up having to shut it. He decided he was going to have to take it up with her. Security was important. "Maria? 'Ria?" He called her again, and when there was no response, he shrugged his shoulders tiredly. He knew she was expecting him; he'd left a message on the answering machine that afternoon. And she was back from work; her car was out front. Maybe she was upstairs. He decided to just set to work with the dinner and get to her when he was done. He walked into the kitchen but stopped abruptly right at the entrance. Then he saw her, and the grocery bags slipped from his grip.

The sight and the smell hit him simultaneously. He didn't know whether to scream or gag first. Audibly swallowing the bile back down his throat, he stumbled blindly back and away from the kitchen entrance, covering his mouth and nose, his other hand planted against the wall to support himself. He turned his head back towards the kitchen, unable to believe what his eyes were showing him.

The kitchen counter was splattered with blood. The source, Maria, was on the floor propped up against the counter, her arms and legs splayed apart, drenched in a large pool of her own blood. He rushed over to her mangled body. "Oh, 'Ria…" he moaned, bursting into tears as he held her ashen face in his hands.

Her throat was slashed from ear to ear, her head bent upwards in a grotesque angle, her dead eyes staring blankly at him. He sat back on his heels and turned his face away once again, forcing the bile back down. He shut his eyes tightly, certain he had walked into a horrific nightmare. But when he opened his eyes he was met with the same gruesome scene. This was real. Someone had walked into his girlfriend's house and murdered her. He was shocked, scared, at a loss for what to do. What the hell…_who_ the hell did this?

Something pressed underneath his fingers. In his anguished state of mind he hadn't seen the knife on the ground, stained from tip to handle with blood. He jerked and pushed it away, as if it was a poisonous snake. The knife slid a short distance and spun around on the spot. He wiped his hands frantically across his pants, desperate to get the blood off. There was so much blood; the floor, the counter, everywhere! The smell was sickening, stuffy, intent on making him vomit, or worse, pass out.

So much blood…

Before he knew what was going on, the kitchen was filled with cops. "Freeze! Police!" they yelled, surrounding him, pointing their guns at him. He was too shocked to even raise his hands, which were stained with blood. One of the cops stepped up to him. "Are you Phillip Jack Brooks?"

"Yeah," he answered vaguely, still disoriented by what was happening. He was surprised he could still speak. He pointed at the body with a trembling finger. "My girlfriend, she's-"

To his great astonishment he was shoved face-first against the wall by the police officer. Indignant, he started to protest, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing; why the rest of them were just staring at his dead girlfriend's body like it was invaluable artwork. But he froze when he heard the click of the handcuffs, holding his wrists prisoner, stunned as he felt the hard coldness against his skin. The next words uttered by the officer changed his life forever.

"Phillip Brooks, you are under arrest for the murder of Maria Kanellis. You have the right to remain silent…"

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_Eight months later…_

The Honorable Judge sauntered into the courtroom, taking a seat in his grand old chair. Jesse Ventura looked every inch the rising celebrity the media had cultivated over the months of this trial. He was the pantomime hero about to serve justice upon the vengeful psychopath who senselessly murdered his sweet, innocent girlfriend and thought he could get away with it. The public had presumed him guilty before he could even be proven innocent. His girl cheated on him. He got payback. Case closed.

To Phil's bewilderment, the evidence had managed to turn itself startlingly against him. Granted, he admitted that he had been the last person to touch the dead body of Maria Kanellis, but somehow in the process, his actions managed to eradicate all other evidence leading towards other possible suspects. His fingerprints were all over the knife, all over her body. It was definitely a no-brainer, then. He was going to be put away for life.

His attorneys, John Morrison and Melina Perez regarded the entire theory as bullshit. The prosecution had done a shoddy, almost laughable job of proving Phil's guilt beyond reasonable doubt and instead exploited the fact that Phil was an independent wrestler, which conveniently amounted to him a violent sociopath. Phil had no records tying him to such facts. The evidence gathered was far too circumstantial and questionable; police procedure throughout the entire proceedings was careless to the point of criminal, not to mention highly dubious. The Judge was incompetent, and they'd been unhappy with his selection from the get-go. The man was, in Melina's exact words, "a slimy, attention-seeking media whore who's using Phil to finally clinch that reality TV deal he's wanted for so fucking long." Of course she made such comments well out of earshot. She was not looking to get disbarred anytime soon. All in all, everything seemed to point towards Phil's demise, but John and Melina were confident of his acquittal. They had people on their side. The trial had exhausted them both, as it had Phil, but no matter the outcome of this nightmare, he would owe John and Melina a great deal for as long as he lived. They were without a doubt two of the most competent, hard-working people he would ever have the privilege of meeting, and knew that they did their absolute best to get him out of this sorry mess. He could only hope that despite the odds, their tenacity would pay off with an acquittal.

Judge Ventura turned to the twelve people sitting a few meters to his left. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

The chosen spokesman got to his feet. "Yes we have, your Honor." He held in his hand the sheet of paper from which he would read out their verdict, the key to the rest of Phil Brooks' life.

"Will the defendant please rise?"

He stood, as did the two defense attorneys, who were flanked on opposite sides of him. John squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, and the gesture would have probably calmed his nerves had his blood not been pounding so damn loudly in his ears. The courtroom collectively held their breath as the spokesman for the jury stood up, ready to make or break a man's destiny. He began to read.

"We the jury, on the charge of first-degree murder, find the defendant…guilty."

The roar was deafening, but the only sound Phil could hear was that of his world crumbling around him. The Judge banged his gavel for silence to no fruition. Both his attorneys gaped open-mouthed at the jury, who were literally fleeing the courtroom without even a backward glance, taking great skill and care not look the way of the defendant, who was numbed with disbelief. He didn't do it! He did not kill Maria! How could they have possibly thought it was him? He _found _her lying there, damn it!

"The defendant will be remanded in custody. Sentencing will be held ten days from this date. Court is adjourned."

The shock of the verdict drained all the fight in him. He didn't even feel the bailiffs' meaty hands gripping his arms as they led him away. He was going to prison for a crime he did not commit. This was unreal. Utterly, heartbreakingly unreal.

"We're filing an appeal right now, Phil!" Melina called out to him, her voice saturated with stunned anger. "Hang tight, okay honey?"

But he knew it would be wasting his time and theirs. He didn't stand a chance now, and he wouldn't then.

And it turned out he was right. Less than two weeks later the appeal was thrown out on its head. Philip Brooks was sentenced to life imprisonment without parole and sent to a remote maximum-security penitentiary to spend the rest of his life.

His nightmare, however, had only just begun.

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_**A/N: I hope that went well. How do you think this story is going to pan out? Let me in on your thoughts and any possible suggestions. Thanks!**_


	2. Prisneyland

_**A/N: Thank you to Hailey Egan, Hardly Here and CremeLover for the first set of reviews. I really appreciate it and hope you continue to spread the love! This is chapter 2. Peace!**_

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_**2. Pris-neyland**_

It was the year where the United States economy was in a dire situation. Unemployment and crime rates had shot through the roof. The recession was affecting every sector of the economy, including the prisons. Neglected by the government, the population in prisons grew and grew, and soon became so vast that private corporations had begun buying the prisons and running them for profit.

Titan State Penitentiary was one of such prisons. Previously one of the most effective prisons in the entire country, the system had slackened to the point that statistics now showed that it was the most dangerous correctional facility on record today. Fish, as the new inmates were called, were preyed upon by other inmates on a regular basis and nothing was ever done about it. Statistics also labeled it as the most unsafe prison in the state of Illinois, and certainly the most corrupt. The only difference between the inmates and the guards was pretty much the badge the men in blue wore on their chests in place of the inmates' back numbers.

Phil Brooks sighed with despair, painfully aware of all of these dire facts. Of all the places they could have sent him to, this was where the kind people of Illinois decided to dump him. This was the worst possible option they could have given a man. An innocent man, no less. But there was nothing he could do anymore about it. His fate was sealed.

The first thing he did was change his name to his wrestling moniker, CM Punk. He didn't care if most of the prison knew what his real name was, he did not want anybody in this facility addressing him by his God-given name. As far as he was concerned, Phillip Brooks was dead the minute his freedom was snatched away from him.

Bound in chains at his ankles and hands, Punk shuffled his way into the building, poked and prodded at by the guards all the way down. His personal belongings were confiscated, including his beloved Breitling watch, the one Maria had given him on Valentine's Day a year ago. He was hosed down, sanitized and handed his prison uniform, among them two orange jumpsuits. They were the ugliest pieces of clothing he'd ever seen in his life.

It was time for registration. Punk joined a long line of new inmates, all of them wearing surly, sour expressions. The one right behind him, a massive, bald-headed skyscraper glared menacingly at him. He could feel his hot, odorous breath on the top of his head, but Punk kept his nerve. He didn't need to have watched prison movies to know that showing fear was the worst thing you could possibly do in an environment like this. He had to suck it up. He could bet that he wasn't the only one in here that was innocent.

He finally got to the front of the line. A big burly man in a prison guard uniform waited ahead for him. Even from afar, the guy looked mean, and had to be about six feet eight inches tall at least. He definitely went a long way in keeping the inmates in check with his threatening appearance.

"Name and back number," the man said in a dull tone, snatching the board Punk held out to him.

"Brooks, Phillip. 10422." Punk glanced at the name tag on the man's chest. Layfield, John. Captain. Chief of Correctional Officers. Punk's eyes left the tag and settled on the man's face. He looked even scarier up close. He hoped he never had to encounter him, but that was asking for a lot, seeing as he would be here for pretty much the rest of his life.

John Layfield felt the curious eyes on him and he looked up from his board, scowling deeply. "What the fuck are you looking at?"

His sudden outburst took Punk by surprise, but he did not show it. "Nothing worth mentioning," he replied coolly.

"In here we got a little motto for punks like you, Brooks," said Layfield, returning his gaze on the clipboard as he scanned the information written on it. "You think they kicked your ass in Court? You ain't seen nothin' yet."

"Right," Punk murmured, looking away.

Layfield's head snapped back up, glaring at him. "You talkin' out the side of your neck, boy?"

"Sorry, what?"

The Chief of Guards cocked his head to the side, looking _very_ intimidating indeed. "I said are you being a smartass?"

Punk frowned. It was obvious this guy was trying to throw him off his guard, but things were not going to work like that. "No need for any drama, Boss. I intend to fly under the radar while I serve my time."

Layfield sneered. "No one in this penitentiary flies under my radar, Brooks."

Punk held his hard gaze. "Whatever you say, Boss."

"Oh?" Layfield crossed his arms as he regarded the man in front of him, having picked up the sarcasm that laced the new inmate's tone. "This one's got quite the mouth on him. That's all gonna change_ real_ soon."

What a hard-ass. "No mouth, boss," Punk insisted. "I didn't come here looking for trouble. I just wanna serve my time."

"You're stuck in here for _life_, pretty boy," Layfield said sharply. "Sooner or later, you will find trouble." He slapped the clipboard against Punk's torso. "You just pray it's not mine."

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating for Punk to scram, and shouted, "Next! Hurry the hell up! I ain't got all day!"

A guard escorted him to his cell. Punk nearly did a double-take when he saw who his cellmate was. Sitting cross-legged on the top bunk was none other than NFL bad boy, John Cena. Punk had closely followed his case. There was no one who didn't know about the famous football player who decided to keep himself busy while rehabbing his injured knee by running a prostitution ring. For all his wealth, luck was certainly _not_ Cena's friend, as he had been the only one to go to jail. His "business partners" had given him up in exchange for no jail time at all. The decision to sentence him to five years in prison hadn't been difficult; his reputation as a promiscuous home-wrecker was never going to work in his favor.

Celebrity was so overrated.

"'Sup," Cena greeted, nodding towards Punk, who murmured a response before tending to his bed and getting his things arranged. Putting down his book, Cena looked closely at his new cellmate. Funny, for once, this one wasn't star-struck. Maybe he understood that this was prison, and celebrity didn't mean shit in this God-forsaken place. Smart man. "What you in here for?" he asked.

Punk stiffened, refusing to make eye contact. "They say I murdered my girlfriend." The words were like Quinine in his mouth; they sounded so foreign in his ears.

Cena raised an eyebrow. "_They say_?"

"They say," Punk repeated, "because I didn't do it." Eight months on and he was yet to get his head around this bizarre drama that had become his life. Things like this only happened in novels and on TV, but now he was living proof that they did happen, a living, breathing evidence of gross injustice. Another sorry statistic.

John Cena stared at him for a long time, and then leaned back against the wall. "Okay," he said flippantly. It was evident that he did not completely believe him. "How long did you get?"

"Life," was the miserable reply.

Cena whistled. "Sorry, bro."

He returned to his reading. Punk leaned against the cell bars, staring at nothing in particular. The inmate in the cell directly opposite his on the other side of the building had now taken to taunting Punk to keep himself entertained. "Yo! What you lookin' at, Fish?" he called, smirking lasciviously. "If you lookin' for a way out, you ain't gonna get it here!"

Punk ignored him, choosing instead to stick with his new-found interest with the ground floor of the prison ward below. A group of inmates was being led by a guard back to their cells. The inmate at the very end of the queue abandoned his spot on the line and streaked forwards stealthily. The expression on his handsome face was like that of an animal having spotted his prey. Sneaking up on the man that was third in line, he struck. Had Punk blinked, he would have missed it. The inmate's right arm thrust forward and back in less than a second, stabbing the man cleanly in the rib area. The shank slipped conveniently from his hands as he moved swiftly into his cell. The wounded man collapsed to the ground, groaning loudly as the blood gushed forth from his side. The inmates cheered loudly, glad they had been presented with some form of entertainment. The guard rushed back to attend to the bleeding man, speaking rapidly into his walkie-talkie as he worked to stem the bleeding with his free hand.

Shell-shocked by what he had just seen, Punk took an instinctive step back. Cena sighed, unfazed by the whole thing, but catching Punk's pale features he merely snickered and climbed back up into his bunk, saying over his shoulder, "Welcome to Prisneyland, Fish."

Phil Brooks had never pissed his pants before. But today he came dangerously close to doing just that.

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_**A/N: Please review!**_


	3. Taking Sides

_**A/N: Really hope you're enjoying this story. Anyway, this chapter contains particularly offensive language. I'm just trying to depict the gritty, no-holds-barred nature of the environment, so forgive me if I offend anyone. Thank you.**_

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_**3. Taking Sides**_

The Titan State prison yard was not that much different from the typical high school cafeteria. Every single bleacher in the yard was dominated by various, distinct factions; cliques, if you will. The only difference was that the acne-ridden, hormonally-charged teenage boys were replaced by weathered, brutish, even more hormonally-charged convicts with nothing to do but look for people to bully. Even when walking towards the bench Cena was leading him to, Punk felt like the geek being leered at by the jocks, as a few eyes fell upon him, analyzing the fresh meat.

"The Crips literally took over the gym," Cena whispered in his ear, nodding his head to their left. "The Bloods are way over the other side of the yard. The potheads are on that little bleacher. They're complete psychos, trust me. And over there, that's where the business tycoons sit."

Punk scoffed. "Why didn't they just try and buy out the prison to gain their freedom or something?" he asked.

Cena looked straight ahead as he spoke. "They tried that at the last prison they were at. That's why they here now."

"For real?" asked Punk, shocked when Cena cocked his head to the side as if to confirm his suspicions. "Yep. And whatever you do, stay away from _them_." He pointed, and Punk's eyes landed on a group of males in drag, their faces heavily made up, wearing skirts, and their white shirts tied femininely in a knot underneath their chests. "Duly noted," he whispered, cringing. He was not dropping the soap anytime soon.

They came to a stop in front of a bleacher, which was already occupied by two other men. After a round of man-hugs and handshakes, Cena took a seat in between them and beckoned Punk over, who approached hesitantly, for some reason feeling like an intruder.

"Dudes!" Cena exclaimed, slapping the other two men on their arms. "Introduce yourselves! Din't yo mamas teach you no fuckin' manners?"

"Never ever mention my mama again, Cena," the larger of the two men said. "You don't know her, and you ain't never gon' know her." He then nodded his head towards Punk in greeting. "'Sup, man? Batista."

Punk returned the nod. Not that he was intimidated or anything, but this fucker was huge! Much bigger than anyone he had taken on in his wrestling days. "Punk, CM Punk," he said, adding quickly, "It's not my real name, but-"

"CM _Punk_?" The third man, an African-American guy with cornrows and a red-colored plaster on his nose, snickered. "What kinda name is that?"

Punk glared at him, offended. Batista scoffed. "_You _can talk. What kinda God-forsaken name is _MVP_?"

"Exactly what it is, motherfucker!" replied MVP. "Montel Vontavious Porter. Quite a mouthful, I know," he added matter-of-factly, addressing Punk.

Batista merely shook his head. "Ignore him, Punk. In here, we ain't really got no use for real names. Most guys in here prefer to carry their birth names to their graves, especially the ones on death row, for obvious reasons." He then pointed at Montel. "You, however, have gotta do somethin' about that shitty-ass name, man."

Montel got to his feet. "Hey, look, Batista! I'm getting' sick an' tired of you disrespectin' me. Why the hell are you callin' my name shit? Is it too complicated for you? Huh?"

Cena leaned closer to Punk. "Watch this motherfucker pull out the race card now," he whispered conspiratorially. "This is the bit where he goes: 'Is it 'cause I'm a-"

"-Black man?" MVP finished exactly at the same time as Cena. Punk bit his lip in a futile attempt to stifle his laughter. If anything, these three guys were entertaining.

Cena then patted MVP in the chest. "Sit down, man. You're embarrassing yourself."

MVP rolled his eyes. "We're in a goddamn Pen, Superstar. If you can't embarrass yourself here, where else can you?"

"So, Punk," Batista started, shifting his attention to the Fish. "Just got here, huh?"

Punk shrugged. "Yeah."

"So what did you do on the other side? For a living, I mean."

Punk leaned back, idly scratching his head. "Indy wrestler."

A quick look was exchanged between Batista and MVP, but it went unnoticed by the new inmate. "Sorry, don't really watch wrestling," Batista finally said with a straight face and an apologetic shrug. "You any good?"

"Think so," Punk replied sarcastically, a small smile crossing his face.

"Don't talk much, do you, Fish?" MVP asked with a smirk. Cena punched him in the arm. "Motherfucker, shut up!" he scolded. "You were saying, Punk…"

But MVP was right. Punk had never been much of a talker. It was a gift and a curse. He preferred to let his actions speak for him. Not talking tended to keep him out of trouble. But then again, maybe if he and Maria had talked through their problems he wouldn't be in this mess. Again, the new inmate shrugged. "I was working at an up-and-coming wrestling promotion. Main-evented a couple of times, won titles, shit like that." Normally, Punk did not enjoy attention. He didn't like talking about himself. But he was the "Fish", and was already learning that any topic of discussion was fair game in this institution. On his way to the yard he'd overheard two inmates bragging about the bra sizes of their ex-wives. He supposed that when one was in prison there was not really much else to talk about. He decided to pose a few questions of his own to the big man. "So how about y-?"

"Well, well. Look who we have here."

Punk turned at the sound of the voice and frowned when he noticed how the other three guys visibly stiffened. A tall man was approaching them, flanked by two other younger guys. Punk's heart sank immediately as he recognized the man. He was the guy who stabbed that other inmate back in the cell blocks.

"Looky here," said the man. "It's John Cena and his little pussy-ass fan club. And it looks like he's recruited a new fuck buddy."

"What's it to you, Orton?" Cena asked snidely, "looking for another Fish to ice?" He tilted his head when Randy frowned. "Yeah, we know what you did to Kendrick."

Randy smiled this sick, sadistic smile that made Punk sick to his stomach. "So what are you gonna do?" he sneered. "Tell on me? Snitch to the Warden? Please. Save your fuckin' teacher's pet bullshit for the NFL. Or better, your sluts back home."

When Cena merely growled at him, he shook his head, turning his attention to Punk. "CM Punk!" he exclaimed, grinning when Punk looked surprised. "Yeah, I know who you are. You're that Indy wrestler from Chicago. I'm Randy Orton."

Cena raised a skeptical eyebrow. MVP, Cena and Batista all exchanged looks.

"I've seen your shit man, you got style," Randy continued, oblivious, or simply ignoring, the suspicious scowls being aimed at him. "You got a lot of potential, man. But I gotta say I'm disappointed in your choice of company." He nodded his head towards Cena, MVP and Batista, and Punk raised an eyebrow. "What do you care?" he asked, despising this guy already.

"I mean, come on," Orton said with a smug smirk. "I know you can do much better than these guys. Like me. You and me, we're probably like peas in a pod, man. I bet we have a lot more in common than you do with some crocked pussy-addicted football player," he sent a smirk in Cena's direction, "a Mr. Olympia reject," he leered at Batista, "and a…" Randy paused, eyeing MVP with intense disdain, "…common nigger thief."

Irate, MVP lunged for Randy's throat, but Batista leapt in the way before he could get to Randy, as did the two cronies who quickly jumped in front of their leader. Most of the cons standing nearby had stopped to watch the commotion. "Get off me!" Montel growled, struggling in Batista's firm grasp. "Damn it Dave, get the fuck off me! Imma _kill_ this motherfucker!"

Orton continued to glare scornfully at the livid MVP as Batista struggled to restrain him. "As I was _saying_," he continued, refocusing on the Fish, "you could get a whole lot of respect up in here if you hang with me. Leave these losers alone, and come join my crew."

The two young men behind him nodded in agreement, silently endorsing their leader's manifesto. Punk regarded the three inmates in front of him, as if thoroughly scrutinizing them, and then he laughed contemptuously, rolling his eyes. "Sorry, Lindsay, I didn't know this was an audition for _Mean Girls 2_."

Batista and Cena ducked their heads as they burst into laughter. MVP had no such restraint, and he howled loudly. "Ohhh!" he cackled with malicious glee, pointing at Orton. "Firecrotch, motherfucker!"

Punk found himself grinning at MVP's comment. For some reason, with the three men standing behind him he felt some warped sense of confidence drift through him. Suddenly he didn't feel so wary of Orton, and no longer regarded him to be the challenge he assumed he would be, not that he had any plans to challenge anybody. He was yet to determine whether those second thoughts were a good thing or a bad thing. After all, he was still was unaware of Orton's intentions, or his capabilities.

His eyes blazing with anger and embarrassment, Orton went right up to Punk, going nose to nose with him. Immediately Batista and Cena rushed to CM Punk's side. At the same time Orton's cronies moved to restrain him. "Leave it," the taller one began, but Randy threw his arm off of him, his blue, basilisk-like orbs not leaving the new inmate's face.

"I suggest you walk away, Orton." Batista said calmly from Punk's left side. "You're much better off not making a scene."

Punk noted the hesitation that flashed in Orton's eyes as the biggest man of the pack spoke to him. Obviously this Batista dude was one who was much more dangerous when mellow and stoic. It made him less predictable, and that convinced Punk's reason to keep the guy as a potential ally.

After a moment of hesitation, Randy wisely backed off, but kept his eyes on the Fish. "Fine. We'll have this discussion another time," he said, his deep voice dripping with false cordiality. "There's no rush, seeing as we're all gonna be here for a _long_ time."

As the crew sauntered away, Punk turned back to Cena, Batista and MVP, all of whom glared viciously at Orton's retreating back. Obviously the beef among this group of guys was one that had bubbled way before he stepped into this facility, and now he had thrown himself right in the middle of it.

What a mistake it would turn out to be.

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_**A/N: Hope you liked it. Suggestions will be warmly welcomed. And the important part: please review!**_


	4. Fighting for a Friend

_**A/N: Man! Thanks a bunch to everybody for the nice, pretty insightful reviews I've got so far for **_**I Choose To Fight. **_**I appreciate them all.**__**Please keep 'em coming and as insightful as they've been since! This is chapter 4. Have fun, and please REVIEW! Thank you!**_

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****Fighting for a Friend**_

It was one o'clock in the morning. After nearly five hours of hard work, John Morrison finally turned off his laptop and went downstairs into the kitchen to fix himself a nice hot cup of hot chocolate. Remembering he wasn't the only one in the house, he made another cup. He walked out of the kitchen with the two cups of cocoa in each hand and headed for the little study in the corner of the two-bedroom house, but he stopped short just as he entered it and then leaned against the open door, sighing softly at the sight before him.

Melina was fast asleep on her desk, with her cheek pressed against the window as she leaned against it. Her mouth hung slightly open, light snores bouncing off the walls of the little room. The sight was humorous, but in a way, John was grateful. This was Melina's first chance in a long while at getting any form of rest. The girl worked way too hard for hours on end without repose. He thought about waking her so she could go to bed, but watching her sleep so peacefully, he couldn't bring himself to get her up. On the other hand, if he left her positioned that way for any longer, she would get neck cramps for the rest of the week. Mind made up, he approached her carefully. "Mel?" Dropping the mugs on her table, he hovered over her, shaking her shoulder slightly. "Sweetie? Wake up."

Her eyes snapped open, and slowly she propped herself up on her elbows, squinting and looking around as she tried to regain her bearings. "Oh, no!" she groaned, glancing at the clock on the wall and realizing she'd thrown nearly three hours of precious time away. To John's surprise, she swatted his arm. "Why didn't you wake me up sooner, John? Look at the time...ooh!" She hissed through clenched teeth as her neck began to stiffen. "Shit! Cramps!"

Using one hand to massage her neck, she picked up a Criminal Law textbook that lay open in front of her on the table and started to read it, but John took the book out of her hand, earning a surprised squawk from Melina. "Nuh-uh," he insisted in a firm tone, refusing to yield to the deathly glare she was shooting him. "No more books for you tonight."

"But John…" she began to protest, but he shook his head immediately, not wanting to hear any of it. "Nope! Bed. Now," he said, earning a pout from her.

"But I'm not…not tired…" The yawn she was trying so hard to suppress escaped her lips in one big breath. He said nothing, merely smirking at her as if challenging her to refute _that_. "You're so unfair," she surrendered tiredly.

John let out an incredulous snort. "_Unfair_? Babe, you're exhausted! How many hours have you slept this last week? Nine? Ten?" Going behind the chair, he bent low to rub the top of her shoulders and gently nuzzle her cheek. "What's unfair is how much stress you're putting yourself through. You need rest, and a long one at that."

She sighed heavily, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in them as John continued with the massage. "Hey," he said softly. "Listen to me. You did everything you could. I know that, and Phil knows that. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

"But he's in prison," she pointed out unhappily. "He got put away for _life_, John!"

John nodded. "I know, baby. The verdict sucked, big time. But I'm not going to let you burn yourself out because of it. It's not going to achieve anything. If you and I are going to get anything done, we're going to need you with a clear head and some sleep in your system. Okay? Does that sound good?"

Melina sighed, conceding defeat. Letting out another big sigh, she settled on arranging the books in one neat pile on her table. When she was finished, John took her by the hand and led her towards the kitchen. He made a fresh cup of hot chocolate for her, as the first one was no longer steaming. She took it gratefully and sipped, resting her back against the counter. John leaned against the wall opposite from her, observing her with respect, wonder and affection in his eyes.

He was yet to meet a woman with half the mental strength and determination that Melina Perez possessed. She was arguably one of the most talented and most competent young lawyers in America, let alone the state. Both of them were trained at the prestigious Yale Law School, and both graduated from the same class summa and magna cum laude respectively and were hotly pursued the country's best law firms. John was a clinical genius, but Melina's passion was unequaled. Her energy came in spades and she worked like a well-oiled machine when in full flow, making her an excellent asset to whomever was privileged enough to get to work with her.

With Melina, cases were handled with relative ease. The Phil Brooks case was no different in her approach. But this time it was deeply personal. Phil was a friend to both she and John, as had been Maria. Naturally, Melina had been distraught by the brutal murder of one of her closest friends, but she still managed to pick herself up just in time for the trial and gave everything she had to ensure that Phil got the justice he deserved.

But she lost the case, and it floored her. It hurt John as well, but it left Melina devastated. John learned over the years of their friendship that Melina's way of coping with defeat was burrowing even deeper to salvage whatever she could rectify, and she was doing it yet again. She had gone over the entire court process, re-examined the evidence and generally tried to retrace her steps, pinpoint where exactly she had gone wrong. Sleep had become a luxury for her.

_Let's not forget the sex_, John thought grudgingly. He loved her, yes, but, as selfish as it sounded, a man had his needs, and he was no exception. But it looked like now was a bad time to remind his girlfriend of that little piece of trivia. Not that he was going to, given the aggressively dogged state she was immersed in lately.

When Melina was done drinking her cocoa, she put the mug away and walked slowly towards John. Automatically his arms went around her, engulfing her in one big hug. They stayed that way for a long moment, with John lightly tracing her back with his finger. "You okay?" he whispered into her hair.

She nodded vaguely as thoughts ran through her head. John was right. She was drained, physically and emotionally. But all this time she could not help but feel that she could have done more for Phil. It did not take long for her to realize that he'd been framed for Maria's murder. How the court and the jury dismissed it entirely left her completely mind-boggled. She was thinking of taking it up to the Supreme Court, and had even filed motions. But now that Phil was convicted and in prison, she was afraid that the issue of double jeopardy could arise. No one could be tried in a court of law for the same offence. Obviously that had to be out of the question if she was going to be granted a final hearing. Melina really was stumped with this. She hated being stumped. She was tired, but she took solace in the fact that there was another day ahead of her, and she did not plan on wasting a second of it.

Still in John's arms, she looked up at him. "I wanna know who did this, John," she said, her dark eyes bright – awakened by the hot cocoa – and full of resolve. "I want to know who killed Maria, and who framed Phil for it. I can't sit by and watch him rot in prison forever for something he did not do. Please understand." She ducked her head, her voice going quiet and apologetic as she continued. "I know I've been a pain the ass lately and I…"

Her voice evaporated when John placed a finger over her lips. "Baby, you're not a pain in the ass. You're fighting for a friend, and that's a very noble thing. We will find out who did this. I promise," he vowed. "Now go to bed. We'll start again tomorrow, okay?"

Melina looked up at him, studying the soft, yet unwavering gaze he fixed upon her, and she relented. "Fine. I'll set my alarm for five-thirty a.m. If I'm not awake by then, please get me up, okay?"

"No problem." He let go of her, though rather reluctantly. "Goodnight, baby."

She gave him a quick kiss on the lips and left the kitchen. John stayed behind and watched her make her way up the stairs. Knowing Melina Perez, this whole thing with Phil would not be over anytime soon. He had never known her for being a quitter, and she was not going to stop, not until she saw that true justice was finally served.

Now how long was _that_ going to take?


	5. What's Up, Doc?

_**A/N: THIS IS A REPOST. I'm busy working on a few more stories. One's already up. It's called "Bullseye" and it features some WWE Superstars as professional assassins. Hope you enjoy it and all my other stories. PLEASE REVIEW!**_

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_**5. What's Up, Doc?**_

Punk sat alone on the thin treatment table, looking around the very white room. It was his first visit to the infirmary. Unlike the rest of the surrounding's he'd so far laid eyes on, this was by far the cleanest. It was in pristine condition and but the septic stench of medicine was nauseating. It made him wish he was back at home.

He heard the door open, and he threw a glance in its direction, his eyes falling on the figure joining him in the little room. A young woman, about five foot four, wearing the typical white doctor's coat, smiled cordially at him. "Good morning, Mr. Brooks. I'm Doctor James," she said.

"Nothin' good about the mornin'," Punk grumbled. He'd had nightmares again. Ever since Maria's murder, he'd had nightmares, each one more gruesome than the last. Not like he was going to ever admit any of it to the doctor, or anyone else.

The Doctor's face twitched knowledgeably. She had anticipated the hostility. Most inmates that walked into the infirmary for the first time tended to be surly and uncooperative, and she supposed that he would be no exception. What she didn't tolerate was violence, and thus the correctional officer (CO) that stood by the door outside the room. "Well I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Brooks-"

"The name's Punk."

Doctor James fought the urge to roll her eyes. Not him too. Like the others, this one had managed to conjure up a moniker for himself before his first week even ran out. "I have an idea," she said charmingly. "Since this is a doctor-patient relationship and the cardinal rule is confidentiality, we'll stick to our real names. I promise I won't ruin your street cred," she added with mild sarcasm.

If it was meant to be a joke, Punk wasn't laughing. He glared at her, seeming like he wanted to argue, but he kept silent. Figuring it was safe to speak again, Doctor James continued. "Now, seeing as this is your first visit up here, I have to check your general stats; your heartbeat, blood pressure, and I'll also need blood samples; basically see if you're fit and healthy enough."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Healthy enough to be in prison?"

The Doctor shrugged, almost apologetically. "Pretty much. Sounds dumb, I know, but I'm under direct orders from the state government. I have to ensure that you're cleared of any communicable diseases; tuberculosis, meningitis, STDs; the works."

Punk rolled his eyes. "Wow. The government must really care about us."

A smile cracked involuntarily at the corner of her lips. "I guess so." She reached for her stethoscope. "It's just a routine check-up Mr. Brooks, so there's nothing to be worried about. I'd have asked if you were uncomfortable with needles," she pointedly eyed the numerous tattoos covering both his arms, "but I'm guessing not."

She motioned for him to lift up his shirt. "Deep breath." She pressed the stethoscope in a circular motion around the left side of his chest. "Mm," she mused. "Heartbeat's strong, regular." She moved to the other side of the room and returned with a syringe, some cotton wool and a small container. "Roll up your left sleeve while I look for a vein, and hold still."

Punk obeyed, and as she withdrew blood from the inside of his elbow, he found himself studying her. She was pretty; deep brown eyes, olive skin. Through the long white coat he could make out a nice womanly figure.

Mortification surged through him, and he rapidly shook his head. _Nice womanly figure? Jesus, Phil!_,the voice in his head screamed at him._ Just because 'Ria's dead don't mean you should go ogling other women. And a _prison doctor_, no less!_

His eyes fell on the gold-colored name tag on her chest. _Dr. M. James_. "What's the M stand for?" he spoke up suddenly, then shrank back, embarrassed at being so forward. At first the look she sent him was one of confusion, but it gradually changed to understanding. "Oh, uh…well if you must know, it's Mickie. But Dr. James will do."

"Sure." He rolled his eyes again. Ignoring him, she strapped the rubber cuff attached to the sphygmomanometer and squeezed the pump, watching the readings. When she was done, she placed the stethoscope around her neck and leaned back against the bed, scanning the information on the clipboard she was holding. "It says here that you suffer from panic attacks," she said, before looking up at him with mild concern. "How often?"

He shrugged. "Not too often," he lied.

She began scribbling on the clipboard. "Have you had any since you came here?"

He shook his head; another lie.

"Okay," Mickie nodded. "Seeing as you're only allowed here once a week, I will have to prescribe you some medication to prevent it-"

"I don't do drugs."

"Excuse me?" She looked down at his outstretched arms, seeing the X symbols marked boldly on the back of his bare hands; the most notable symbol of the straight edge lifestyle. "I see. Well, I'm pleased about that Mr. Brooks. That means that you're less than likely to be a junkie. Even so, I fully intend on monitoring your intake." She handed him two pills. "Start with these and make sure you eat breakfast. Your tests will be ready in a week. I'll let the COs know your next appointment."

Reluctantly, he put them in his mouth and swallowed them without any water. Smacking his lips, he set his cold gaze upon her again. "Am I done here?" he asked.

Annoyed, she could only nod, and he stood up to leave without another word. She watched him with a frown as he followed the guard out, left once again to wonder why exactly she took this job.

* * *

"_Maaan_," MVP grumbled, glaring down at his food tray. "I don't need to touch this bread to know that it's at least a week old."

For some reason the commissary was particularly noisy, and the guys could barely hear themselves over the raucous chatter. Punk decided to continue yesterday's discussion with Batista. If he was going to be trapped with these people for the rest of his life, he needed to know who he was dealing with. "So Dave, what you in here for?"

"Manslaughter, five years into my forty-year sentence," he said nonchalantly. Unlike Punk, he didn't give a damn whether he was the center of attention or not. "Some cokehead at the club I was bouncin' for attacked a girl with a knife in the nearby alleyway. I tried to stop 'em but the little bastard turned the knife on me, so I beat 'em up. Turned out that he's not only a Senator's kid, he's a sickler. Died after what, three punches?"

He snorted as he reminisced, then bit on his cornbread. "I'd do it again," he continued, his expression remorseless. "Tryin' to get away with raping a defenseless girl just 'cause you're some hotshot's kid? Bullshit."

"How about you?" Punk turned to Montel, who rolled his eyes. "Ten years for possession of stolen goods. At least that's what they called it. I got busted transporting 'imported' semi-automatics from Miami to Jacksonville." He frowned. "That's the last time I adopt the 'obey first, ask questions later' rule."

"Jeez I can hear the violins already, let's change the subject," said Cena.

"Best idea I heard from you, Superstar." MVP then grinned at Punk. "So you met Dr. James, huh? Hot, ain't she?"

Punk shrugged, his mind drifting unconsciously to Maria. "Dunno. I didn't really look."

"Huh?" MVP asked, suddenly looking uncomfortable, "Wait, you ain't gay or nothin' like that, right?"

"No. I'd rather have been looking at my girlfriend," he said quietly, staring into his tray, "but she's dead and apparently _I_ killed her, so…"

Cena placed his palm against his forehead while Batista threw all his concentration into eating the rest of his breakfast. MVP's eyes widened with remorse. "Punk, look man, I-"

Suddenly their table shook. Randy Orton had slammed his fists on it to gain their attention. "Hope I'm not interrupting your little groupie convention here," he said maliciously, while his two cronies sniggered behind him.

"Man, why don't you fuck off somewhere else!" MVP snapped. Randy snapped his icy glare upon him. "I don't remember speaking to you, coon!" he growled.

Rolling his sleeves Montel began to stand up, but Batista caught his arm underneath the table and pulled him back down. It was a wise move as Randy's cohorts were ready for him anyway. Orton circled the table, coming to a stop behind Punk, and slowly bent down, whispering in his ear.

"If you think you're safe now that you're with these guys, think again, _Brooks_," he said.

"Don't call me that," Punk hissed, glaring up at Orton, who let out a hiss. "Ooh, touchy," he observed, eyes twinkling maliciously. "Is it reserved just for Cena now? Don't tell me you two are already fuck buddies! Shame, with all the diseases he's brought in here."

DiBiase and Rhodes chortled heartily. However, Cena shot to his feet. He didn't go very far though, as Batista quickly came between the two of them. "Come any closer and I'll break your other leg, Cena!" Orton said, pointing at his expletive-spewing adversary from behind his two young cronies.

"I won't say it again, Orton. Back off!" Batista snarled, looking Orton right in the eyes, causing the younger inmate to back down, but just. As deranged as Orton seemed, he knew a losing fight when he saw one. "So this is one of the perks that come with getting butt-pounded by Cena and his boys," he sneered. "They fight your battles for you." His lips spread out in a thin smile. "Sweet."

Punk required all his mental willpower to prevent himself from lashing out at the bastard. He didn't exactly know what Orton was playing at, trying to provoke him, but he was determined not to give in. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the COs approaching them. Apparently Orton did as well, because he relented, but barely. "This isn't over," he whispered to Punk, "not by a long shot."

He stalked away, making sure to bump hard into Punk as he went past him. This childish act elicited another round of laughter from DiBiase and Rhodes. A barely-contained expression of disgust swept Punk's features as he watched Orton walk away. There was something very cunning, very reptilian about Orton that when unleashed he did not want to be in its path. But it seemed a bit late for that. Orton had made it pretty clear that he was now out to get him.

Back in the privacy of their cell, Punk had to make enquiries. "That Orton guy; what's his deal, huh? Other than the stick he's got up his ass?"

Cena huffed. "How much time you got?" he asked. And with a tired sigh, he began to fill Punk in on all the sordid details. It turned out that twenty-eight-year-old Randall Keith Orton was a ruthless, sadistic sociopath who kidnapped and murdered his father, Bob, in cold blood when he was refused his inheritance. Rumor had it that he had a few other spells behind bars for rape and aggravated assault. He received seventy-five years to life in prison without parole for first-degree murder. The two young men that followed him around, Ted DiBiase and Cody Rhodes were his accomplices and each got fifty years. However, it seemed that a maximum security was not going to stop Randy from doing whatever the hell he wanted. He beat up and raped other inmates, instigated riots and bullied most of the CO's. Inmates that displayed a sliver of the volatility that Orton did would have been shipped off to another penal institution a long time ago, but for reasons only known to the Warden, he was still in Titan State, wreaking havoc at will.

"I know he don't scare you," John said to Punk, "But he's gonna make sure he makes your life a living hell in here. You punked his ass out in front of the entire yard yesterday. It was mad funny and shit, but Orton will be gunnin' for you now. The last guys that did ended up dead. And with those two fairies following him about, we're gonna need eyes at the back of our heads."

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_**A/N: See why I was so nervous doing this chapter? Hope you liked this new version! Let me know if you did by reviewing! Suggestions are also welcome. Thanks!**_


	6. Seeing Through the Lies

_**A/N: Just want everyone to know that I made some changes to Chapter 1! I added a few more bits to Punk's discovery in the kitchen which will make sense once you read this chapter. And I also wasn't really feeling Layla as Punk's girlfriend, so I changed her back to my original pick. It will reflect through the rest of the story. Sorry!**_

_**P.S. Wow! The WWE released Mickie James. WWE's women's division is officially shot to hell. I don't care what they said she did! From what I've read and heard over the past years, the likes of Randy Orton should be long gone by now. Good luck, MJ! The WWE never deserved you!**_

_**

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6. Seeing Through the Lies**_

Melina pulled the collars of her overcoat over her ears, protecting them from the bitter cold sweeping around the town. As soon as the traffic light hit "Walk", she crossed the road and headed towards the Chicago Police Station, her heart pounding with each step. She hadn't slept a wink, not since receiving the fabulous news that she and John had been given one more chance at appeal, this time to the biggest court of all, the Supreme Court. Things were just not adding up with the case, and had not been doing so even back before the trial began. She understood that this was costing time and money and her firm was bearing the brunt of her exertions on this case, but Melina was not willing to let this last chance to go to waste. She wanted answers, she wanted clarifications, and more importantly, she wanted the truth. And she was determined to get them.

The Police Officer ahead of her signaled with a wave of his hand and walked briskly towards her. She slowed down as her eyes fell upon the man she had arranged to meet. It was obvious that he wanted to be anywhere else but standing here talking to her, but she didn't care. She had a job to do. She didn't mean she had to like the people she had to deal with to get the job done.

Officer Michael Cole eyed her warily, wondering to himself for the millionth time why he had agreed to meet with her. This was the broad that had tried to break Judge Ventura's balls in the girlfriend-killer case and make the Chicago Police Department look like incompetent, gun-jumping amateurs. In his book, those were two big no-no's, so the prejudice had already set into his psyche. "You're the one who's lookin' for me?" he asked, peering at the young lawyer.

"Yeah. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Phil Brooks case." She extended her hand. "My name is Melina Perez. I'm-"

"I know who you are," he said curtly, and it took a great deal of willpower for Melina not to smack him across the head with her handbag. "I'd like to ask some questions regarding the Phillip Brooks case," she continued, slowly and evenly.

Abruptly, Cole began to walk, and Melina had to hurry to catch up with him. "What about it?" he asked, his tone more or less telling her his utmost displeasure of getting mixed up with her. Again, she could have cared less.

"According to your testimony, Officer," said Melina, "You were the first one to respond to Maria Kanellis's home the afternoon she was murdered, right?"

"That's right, ma'am," Cole replied, still walking briskly. Jeez, if cops could move this fast, why weren't they ever on time when you actually _needed_ them? Melina quickened her strides as much as she could. "Look, I'd really appreciate it if you could just tell me exactly what you saw."

He stopped so suddenly that Melina just stopped short of colliding into him. Totally disregarding her wellbeing, he turned around and stared at her as if wanting to ask what she was thinking to ask such a dumb question. Wasn't she in court when she gave his testimony?

"The Supreme Court granted us one more shot at appeal," she explained to him, clearly reading his mind. "So I would appreciate if you reminded me of what you said. Let's just call this me refreshing my memory. Just trace back your steps and remember exactly what went on, what you saw in the house right before you arrested Brooks."

Officer Cole took a deep breath. "Dispatch called in a tip from a neighbor who heard screaming coming from the residence of the victim. So we went to the place. We spread out, I took the kitchen, and that was when I saw Mr. Brooks kneeling on the ground, wiping off blood onto his pants." He pinched the bridge of his nose, and then added sarcastically, "I don't need to tell you it was the girl's blood, do I?"

Melina did not respond. She eyed him for a second, her expression unreadable. She then began digging in her bag for something. She brought it out and then handed it to the policeman. "This is a copy of the police report you filed that day," she informed him. "You did write that, didn't you?"

"Yes, I think I would recognize my own writing," Cole answered, his tone clipped.

"In the police report you said that you saw Brooks wiping the blood off his hands onto his pants. That's all you said. But when you testified against him you said you saw him holding the knife used in the murder. No mention of wiping any blood. So which one is it, Officer?"

Cole shifted uncomfortably. "Does it matter?" he asked tentatively. The arrogant know-it-all facade had slipped, revealing glimpses of the lies that the man was without a doubt, telling her; the lies he had told the Court and put Phil behind bars just so he could save face. But a glimpse was all Melina needed. "Your report was tendered as evidence in Court," she responded. "And from what I'm gathered from this conversation, you've said two different things. Two_ contradictory_ things. So which one did actually you see happen, Officer? Brooks holding the knife? Cleaning the blood off his hands?" Her eyes narrowed. "Or neither?"

"I saw both, okay?" His voice was rising. "I come into the kitchen, he's on his knees, the knife is coated with blood and spinning in front of him, like he'd just pushed it away. His hands are all bloody and he's looking guilty as hell. That's all there was to it."

The young woman cocked her head with disbelief. "_'Like he'd just pushed it away'_," she repeated, shaking her head. "That doesn't mean you _saw_ him touch the knife. You and I know that that's two completely different things, Officer."

"Look, lady, his fingerprints were all over the damn knife! That was enough evidence for the jury to put him away. What _I_ saw had nothing to do with the Court's decision."

"That's not entirely true, Officer." She took one step towards him, barely able to suppress her emotions. She knew it was not smart to antagonize a law enforcement officer, but he had pretty much done that all by himself. She was merely taking the ball and running with it, making him realize what he had done. Whether it would make a difference or not, she neither knew nor cared. "In fact, your testimony factored heavily into his conviction. You know that, right?"

"You know what, lady? I think we're done here," he snapped, no longer bothering to hide his irritation. "If you got any other questions just go through the Department." With that he trudged off, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and the nosy lawyer. Melina stood alone in the cold and glared after him, planting her hands on her hips.

Un. Believable.

* * *

Cole barged through the doors and made a beeline for the Lieutenant's office. He went in and approached his desk of his superior, Lieutenant Mark Callaway. He was a veteran in his early forties and a hulk of a man, very tall and broad, with graying dark hair, a weathered face and hard, intense green eyes that had seen it all in over eighteen years with the force. He looked up and frowned at his colleague. "What took you so damn long, Cole?"

"Apologies, sir," came the wry response as he took the worn cream-colored Manila file being handed to him. "That Melina Perez chick cornered me."

Callaway raised an eyebrow as he tried to recollect the name. "That lawyer in the Phil Brooks case?" Cole nodded. "What the hell did she want?"

"Asked me a coupla questions about the Brooks case," he answered tiredly, lazily flipping through the file. "I pretty much told her she was clutching at straws. I mean, the case is closed. You'd think she'd had enough of making the Chicago PD look like total douchebags, but no, she's back for more. She's gone to Supreme Court now, you know that?" He huffed, rolling his eyes. "They'll _never_ take it up."

Lieutenant Callaway merely grunted in response before getting to his feet. "Start work on that," he said, pointing at the file in Cole's hands. "I smell not less than three leads in this case, and I want all of 'em found in the next forty-eight hours."

Officer Cole exited the room, leaving Callaway alone. As he glanced out of his window, his thoughts reverted back to what his subordinate had just said. From what he could remember, this Melina lady was quite the spunky one. The guys in the force always had plenty to say about the "Smokin' Hot Ball-buster from Yale," especially after the way she had taken on the Chicago PD and the Court like her life had depended on it. What she was still fighting for he wasn't sure. The case was basically open-and-shut. Unless she pulled a rabbit out of a hat, she didn't stand a chance in the apex court, not with the overwhelming amount of evidence against the perp. She would probably _need_ to take some magic lessons to impress the Judges.

An amused smirk crossed the Lieutenant's lips at that thought. Well, good luck to her with _that_.

* * *

_**A/N: LOL! Here I am trying to put my law skills to use, yet I'm second to clueless about the American legal system. Eh, at least I'm trying, right? Considering I'm doing this all on my own, pretty much like the rest of my stories. Show me some love with some feedback, a'ight? Much love! xxx**_


	7. An Offer He Can Refuse

_**A/N: Hiya! Chapter 7 is up. You know what to do after reading!**_

_**P.S: You might want to revisit Chapter 5. I made a few but significant changes. You'll understand why as the story progresses. Also, this chapter contains some rather disturbing themes. I'm very sorry if I offend anyone.**_

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_**7. An Offer He Can Refuse**_

CM Punk had learned two things so far in the week since his incarceration: one; there was nothing he had learned growing up in the tough streets of Chicago that could have prepared him for the savagery he was witnessing in Titan State. Inmates maimed, raped and killed each other for fun. Lockdown was the period where the guards shut down all cells so they could search for contraband, but at Titan State, it was the opportunity for inmates to exhibit their trophies; victims' eyeballs, fingers, ears and other morbid collectibles were on display. One particular inmate began walking around wearing his former cell mate's penis as a necklace. Repulsed was not a strong enough word to describe how he felt after seeing that.

Two; the guards were nothing more than inmates with badges, led by Correction Officer John Bradshaw Layfield, or "JBL" as he was known around the Pen. He was corruption personified, his seniority within the security ranks plunging him head-first into the murky depths of megalomania. He collected bribes, giving preferential treatment to anyone who dangled a one dollar bill at him, and bullied and ostracized non-conforming inmates. Like Orton, he had made it clear that he was not too fond of Punk, ever since their first encounter when he first got here.

And speaking of Orton…the guy seemed to have made it his sole purpose to make Punk's life a living hell, heckling him at every given opportunity he got. It was getting infuriating. MVP was always up for a fight, but Batista and Cena were the voices of reason, talking Punk out of any physical confrontations. But for how long could the inevitable be delayed?

The four cons were in the yard, sitting by their usual bleacher, with MVP rifling through the latest edition of Vibe Magazine. The inmates were only allowed outside two hours a day. Punk was currently pretending not to notice the few pointed glares in his direction. Batista informed him that there were a few guys who were less than happy about how quickly he had wormed his way into the great John Cena's camp. "But fuck 'em," Batista had said dismissively. "You hang out with whoever you want. It's not your problem that they're groupies."

Punk smiled, but it faded as he saw the cons coming towards them. Orton and his friends had approached them. Then, without warning, Orton snatched the magazine out of MVP's hands. "Hey!" he exclaimed angrily, but Orton sidled out of his reach as Rhodes and DiBiase blocked him. "Give that back!" MVP growled.

Orton lazily flipped through the pages. "Trash, trash, and more trash. It does surprise me that you can actually _read_, Porter." Shooting the Miami native a malevolent smile, he then dropped the magazine into the drainage system, dusting his hands afterwards.

MVP advanced, and Batista quickly got in his way. "Hey, just leave it," Batista began.

"Yeah, leave him, Montel," Punk eyed Orton hatefully, "He just wants attention so bad that he has to act like a bitch to get it!"

Orton marched right up to the former Indy wrestler, finally finding a reason to get in his face. "Did you say something?"

"You deaf?" Punk retorted. "So I don't wanna join your crew! Do you have to be so fucking petty?"

Orton's thin lips spread into a cruel sneer. "You think you're worthy to even mop up my piss? You disrespected me, Punk. I deserve respect and I demand respect. If I don't get it, then I take it by all means necessary. But what do you know about respect? I mean, that broad of yours couldn't even keep her legs closed for you!" He smiled. "What was her name again? _Maria_?"

Punk felt his lungs close at the mention of her name, and instantly, rage began to build inside of him. Orton went on, feeding off the heat emanating from his adversary. "I saw her on TV, and I just had to ask myself: What was a hot little number like her doing with an ugly-ass motherfucker like you in the first place?"

"Shut up," Punk hissed, clenching and unclenching his fists.

But Orton was in no mood to shut up. He cocked his head, his movement eerily similar to that of a snake. "How does it feel, huh?" he asked, "how does it feel knowing that you're in here because of some girl who obviously didn't give a damn about you? How does it feel knowing that she was nothing more than a cheap _whore_?"

And right there and then, Punk snapped.

"Punk, no!" Cena's warning was to no avail as he lunged, catching Orton square in the jaw. He didn't even let the man hit the floor before he pounced. He mounted the taller man, pounding his left fist into his face. The little prick! He had no right to talk about his girlfriend, or even say her name! He couldn't feel the arms that were trying to pry him off Orton, couldn't hear anything other than the sound of his fist cracking into Orton's face. All he saw was red.

"Hey! Hey! Break it up!" JBL hollered above the fracas seconds later, striking everyone within his reach with his nightstick. "Back up! Back up right now!"

MVP and Batista successfully wrenched Punk away, who saw that he had broken Orton's nose. Good.

JBL pushed Orton aside. "You! Go clean yourself up! And you! Get up!" JBL seized Punk by the collar of his orange jumpsuit and dragged him away. "We're going to the Warden!"

The eyes of Cena, Batista and MVP grew wide. The looks on their faces told Punk that he was in deep shit.

* * *

JBL knocked on the door. "Warden," he called, "Brooks is here to see you."

"Bring him in."

Punk's eyes widened at the sound of the voice, and he gaped at the door. The Warden was a _woman_?

JBL opened the door and roughly prodded Punk into a tastefully decorated office, the second cleanest place he had seen after the infirmary. A petite, chubby woman wearing a navy pinstriped suit came into his view. She was already in her seat, waiting for him. Punk spied the name plate on the oak desk: _Warden Vickie Guerrero_.

"Mr. Phillip Brooks," she said, sounding more like an accusation than a greeting. She looked and seemed like a no-nonsense woman. She had to be to run a place like this.

"I take it that this isn't a 'Welcome Freshman' session we're having," Punk said dryly.

Vickie stared back at him with what could have been amusement. "I could arrange that for you, if you like."

"No thanks," he answered bitterly, "I understand the old prison tradition. Because I'm a Fish, I'm fair game. Before I know it I'll get ambushed by some dudes who would love nothing more than to tear up my asshole-"

"Excuse me!" Vickie interrupted, cringing. Punk trailed off, staring quizzically at her, but he let out a yelp when JBL hit him in the head. The Warden had a look of disgust on her face. "Foul language…is a _peeve _of mine," she said stiffly. "Anyway. This prison is the home to murderers, rapists, and violent offenders of every kind. The US Penal System sends me the worst of the worst. But the men you've entangled yourself with, the likes of Randy Orton-" She paused, chuckling. "Well let's just say, Mr. Brooks, that the life term you've joined us for may be a lot shorter than planned."

"And there's nothing you can do about him, huh?"

"There are human beings, Brooks, and then there's Orton," Vickie said wryly, "I may be the higher power up in here but I don't make miracles."

She picked up a file and began to flip through it. "While looking over your record, I couldn't help noticing your occupational history. It seems that you have some talent in the wrestling ring. Just curious; when was the last time you had a competitive match?"

There was a tense pause. "It's been a while."

Vickie dropped the file and leaned forwards. "There's a…project that we've been running for a while now," she said. "It's a televised tournament-type competition within the premises here that we call _Titan Demolition_. You fight not just to win, but survive. I was thinking that the audience needs a fresh face, and based on the information in this file, you might just be it."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked, already not liking it.

"I need a man that will move the people watching at home. Inspire them. And in the world we live in, that's not easy to come by. You've got a good story, and obviously you're one hell of a fighter. That _was_ quite a beating you just handed Orton-"

Punk laughed. "What makes you think that I'm going to risk my life becoming your little monkey so I can _inspire_ people?"

"The small matter of the grand prize, Mr. Brooks," Vickie replied, and Punk noticed the knowing twinkle in her eye.

"And what's that?"

"Your freedom."

Punk blinked. "What?"

Vickie knew she had him now. "You heard me. The tournament starts in two weeks. Win all of your fights, Punk and you'll walk. Get the chance to restart your life. This tournament is an online phenomenon; nearly ten million hits per episode. But this time, we're putting it on TV. The coverage will be better than anything you ever got in the Indy scene; internet streams, underground promotions, merchandise; there's a lot of money involved, some of which will go to you if you win. Think about it, Mr. Brooks. The fans will love your story and they'll be rooting for you. You could very well become a legend. So, what do you say?"

She saw his face relax as he thought it through and she smiled. It was a done deal, no doubt.

"No."

Turning her head to the side, Vickie peered at him out of the corner of her eye, as if trying to process what he had just said. "Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'm not gonna do it."

"Brooks, I'm giving you a chance at freedom," the Warden emphasized, "no catch. This stipulation has never been done before until now. Call it intuition, but I highly doubt that you belong in here with the rest of the animals you've been locked up with."

"You know me so well, don't you?" Punk asked coolly. "You have the wrong man, Warden."

Vickie smiled, but it was one devoid of mirth. "You won't get a better offer than this, Brooks. You're a skilled wrestler, and your chances of winning are good. _Very_ good. Are you certain you don't wanna reconsider?"

But Punk shook his head. "Positive."

Vickie's forced smile now dissolved altogether. "Brooks-"

"I'd like to leave now."

Vickie stared hard at him for several moments. Then cocking her head to the side, she waved her hand towards the door, signaling for JBL to take him away. The CO yanked Punk to his feet and steered him out of the office and all the way back to his cell.

"You know somethin', Fish?" Punk turned when JBL spoke, and there was this smug look on the Chief of Guards' face. "Sayin' no might be the best decision you ever made in your sorry life."

Chuckling, he called for the cell to be opened, shoved Punk inside and stalked off.

"What happened?" Cena asked Punk as the cell bars slid back into place.

"Nothing," he replied, in no mood to have a conversation.

"So you weren't punished?" The former NFL player raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised when his cellmate shook his head again. "Strange. Normally she woulda kicked your ass all the way back here."

"Uh-huh," Punk said absently. His eyes were fixed on Orton, who was glaring at him from inside his cell as he nursed his crooked nose. Punk found himself wishing he'd done worse to the asshole.

* * *

It was about half past midnight. JBL escorted a young inmate to an empty jail cell. Unlocking it, he ushered in the boy. "What's ya name, kid?" he asked gruffly, glaring down at him.

"Evan Bourne," he answered timidly, sending JBL a look that was laced with suspicion and uncertainty. He didn't know why he was here. The CO had just dragged him up here without any feasible explanation. He moved towards the bed, looking for anything suspicious. Then turning back around, as his eyes fell upon the new presence inside the cell, he froze.

Randy Orton emerged from the shadows, moving toward him with deliberate, malignant slowness. Without taking his eyes off Bourne, he pressed a hundred dollar bill into JBL's hand. The Chief of Guards quickly pocketed the money and slipped out of the cell, locking it and disappearing, leaving Evan at the mercy of the monster of Titan State.

The horror of what was about to happen to him hit Bourne like a bullet to the brain. "Oh no! No! No, please!" he begged, eyes and mouth wide with terror as he backed away. But Orton kept advancing, sneering, like an animal having cornered his prey. His slim frame seemed to stretch out over the expanse of the whole room, blocking the slightest means of escape. Out of sheer desperation, Bourne ducked underneath Orton to make a dash towards the front, but the bigger man caught him easily. Immediately Evan started screaming, but he was abruptly cut off when Orton smashed his face against the rusty meta l upright of the bunk bed. Blood spurted everywhere. The weakened young inmate was then thrown onto the bed. Climbing in after him, Orton ripped off Bourne's pants with aggression, pausing briefly to lick his lips at the bare, pink flesh that beckoned at him.

"No! Don't! Please! I'm begging you!" Bourne cried weakly, tears and blood running down his face as Orton forcibly shoved his head into the dirty mattress, nearly suffocating him. Then, positioning himself behind Evan, he thrust.

Those who were awake would have struggled to believe that the screams that followed came from an actual human being. Among those people included Punk, who unfortunately was two doors away, an unwilling listener to the atrocity taking place on the other side. Every scream, every cry, every decibel of pain and terror coming out of that poor boy's mouth rang inside his head, threatening to drive him to the point of nausea.

How could he possibly go through a lifetime of this?

* * *

_**A/N: Gah, this chapter gave me goose bumps just writing it. What about you? Let me know how the experience went. Thanks!**_


	8. As One Door Closes

_**A/N: Yes! I'm baaaack! And now I have all the time in the world to continue with my stories. They'll be hopefully coming in thick and fast. Here is Chapter 8 of ICTF. I had a terrible case of writer's block with this but I finally pulled through, and I hope everyone likes it. Please read and PLEASE REVIEW! Enjoy!**_

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****8. As One Door Closes…**_

"You're shittin' me." Morrison said, flabbergasted. "So he just blew you off?"

Melina snorted angrily as she recanted her fruitless encounter with Officer Cole to her boyfriend. "Pretty much. You should have seen his face when I pointed out his contradictions! He knew what he did and so does the Police Department. They know he fucked up royally, but for some bullshit reason they're protecting him! That police report pretty much got Phil locked up!"

John eyed Melina wearily as she paced back and forth in front of him. He feared for the well-being of the carpet. "Babe, take it easy," he cajoled her. "Sit down. Take a deep breath."

Melina stared at John for a long moment, and then surprisingly, did as she was told. She dropped down into the seat behind her and with a sigh, ran her hands through her hair. "I don't believe this. What are we going to do, Johnny?"

"Honestly, what we can do with that issue right now is pretty much limited. My suggestion is that we leave the cops out of this, _for now_," he quickly added when Melina started to protest. "Look, our main priority is to getting fresh evidence for the appeal, right? Let's do that first. We'll deal with the police later."

"Well for starters, we need more eyewitnesses," said Melina, getting up again. "Maria was murdered in broad daylight for God's sake. I still think it's odd that Phil was the only one neighbors saw entering the house in the time leading up to the murder. Honestly speaking, I don't think that's what really went down. Someone else came into that house and killed Maria, and we have to find out how they did it without being detected. And someone had to have seen something, _anything_."

"But that's the problem," said John. "There was _nothing else_ indicating that someone else was in the house at the time of the murder. I went over the reports from the CSIs; there was no break-in; all the locks were in place. The only way the killer came in was through the front door. Which brings us back to what we already know; that Maria knew who her killer was."

"And it wasn't Phil."

"Yes, we both agree about that. But if not Phil, then who?"

"I'm thinking we should return to Maria's place," said Melina. "The cops missed something and we both know it."

"Yeah, but we need permission from those same cops to get back into the premises."

Melina shot John a knowing glance. "Then we'll just have to go _ask _them, won't we? Look, they have to cooperate with us one way or the other. They mess up again and we'll have them docked for obstruction of justice."

"That'll go down well," John muttered with a sigh, scribbling down some notes in the notepad in front of him. The room went quiet for a while as both got lost in concentration.

"Hey, remember Drew McIntyre?" Melina piped up, snapping her fingers at the same time. Drew McIntyre was a local drug dealer Melina and John had made a deal with in exchange for his testimony in Phil's case. But mysteriously, he had not shown up to court. "What happened to him again?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? He's going to be deported."

Melina was taken aback. "Deported? Why?"

"Yeah. I talked to someone at Immigration about two weeks ago. He was charged with possession of narcotics and he agreed to be extradited to his hometown of Scotland instead of serving time in the States. I don't know if he's actually gone, but if my dates add up, he should have."

"But we subpoenaed him way before this issue came up, didn't we?"

"Yes we did," John agreed. "But if you asked me it's better that he never showed. He didn't have anything going for him; for one, he's a serial offender. He's got a criminal record as long as my arm. Not to mention he's an illegal immigrant and a bona fide crackhead."

"That doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he was an important witness for us," Melina insisted. And on paper, he had been. Drew had allegedly seen Phil at the other side of town between the hours of 2 p.m. and 4 p.m., about the time Maria's murder took place, and _had_ proof. Had he been present at the trial, who knew what would have happened? Phil may have been a free man by now.

"Yeah, but he's a very unreliable one, too," John argued. "Look, McIntyre's got a track record of disappearing on cases where he's been called as a witness. Ours wasn't the first case he's skipped out on. The jury would've gathered up all this info and buried him with it."

Exasperated, Melina threw her hands up. "We have to find him, John. He's probably our only chance we got at the moment. What we have on board isn't enough and if we don't get this right, that's it. An innocent man will rot in jail for the rest of his life."

John sighed. He didn't really like the idea of starting this again but they did have very few options left. "Fine. I think I have his phone number somewhere. I'll try it and see if there's any response at all."

"Okay. Thank you." Leaning against his table, she rubbed her forehead gingerly. "I think I'm getting a headache. You got some aspirin somewhere?"

Tapping at his phone, John nodded distractedly. "Check my side of the bathroom cabinet."

Melina left John's room, down the hallway and into the bathroom. She opened the mirrored cabinet and found what she was looking for, but as she took out the aspirin something else caught her eye. "Oh, God. John, don't tell me you're still using this hair dye!" she teased, taking hold of the bottle.

John materialized in the bathroom in a flash. "Leave it, Melina." Snatching the bottle from her, John pushed it back far into the cabinet and slapped it shut. Melina gazed at him, partly amused. She knew John was sensitive about his hair color (for reasons he was yet to disclose, even if he did, she would probably never understand them) but this was ridiculous. "Come on. But I told you before, there's nothing wrong with your-"

"Just _leave_ it, okay?"

Uh-oh. He sounded pissed. Time to drop it. "Okay, fine." Giggling, she followed him out, blowing him a playful kiss as he went downstairs. She went into her room and to her desk to focus on the task at hand; working on the appeal that would finally free Philip Brooks.

"Mel!" John suddenly yelled from downstairs, "Get down here! You gotta see this!"

If he hadn't sounded so serious, she would have let whatever it was wait till later. She bounded down the stairs and into their living room. "What?"

She got no response from him. He was staring at the flat-screen TV, his face ashen. The mug shot of a young man was on TV, and Melina instantly recognized it. It was Drew McIntyre.

"…_Police found various narcotics and prescription medications by the bedside of the deceased, including drug paraphernalia_-"

"No!" Melina's heart sank all the way down to her toes. "Oh, you gotta be _kidding_ me!"

John nodded sadly. "Drug overdose."

She watched the rest of the news with disbelief. He'd been found dead in his bathroom by one of his friends. Apparently he was meant to have been deported the next day. Toxicology reports were coming out in a week. For all the information flashing on the screen, only one thing rang in Melina's head; Drew McIntyre, their only hope, was dead!

God, this was terrible!

She barely heard her phone ringing in her pocket. Her eyes never left the TV as she fumbled for it, and answered it with shaking hands. "H-hello?"

"Is this Melina Perez?" It was a lady's voice.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"I'm…I'm Tiffany-" Her voice was nasally, like she'd been crying. She sounded distracted, and at the same time…afraid.

Melina's brows furrowed with confusion. She didn't know a Tiffany. "Um, I think you have the wrong-"

"I'm Drew McIntyre's girlfriend."

That got Melina's attention. "Oh." She edged away from John and the TV. "Oh, uh…I just saw the news. I'm so sorry about what happened to him-"

"That story they're running is bullshit!" Tiffany interjected angrily. "Drew didn't die from an overdose. He was murdered!"

Melina froze. "What?"

"Please help me, ma'am." Tiffany sobbed. "I know you're making another appeal for the Phillip Brooks case. I know Drew was supposed to talk to you and I have…I've got the information you need."

"What kind of information?"

"Not over the phone!" the woman whispered. "There are people…everywhere…watching. I'm risking my life by just making this phone call…I bet they could even trace this payphone. They're the ones who killed him. I just know it. They got to him, now they're gonna come after me."

"Hold on a second," interrupted Melina. "How do I know this isn't some practical joke or something?"

"It's not." There was an ominous tone to Tiffany's voice; a tone that all but assured the lawyer that this was not a laughing matter. "Meet me tomorrow morning at the diner downtown," Tiffany continued. "8 a.m. sharp. Come alone." The line went dead.

"Hello?" Melina pressed the phone harder to her ear. "Hello? Tiffany!"

"What is it?" asked John. "Who was that?"

"A woman just called me," Melina replied quietly. "She said she was Drew McIntyre's girlfriend and she wants to meet with me."

John's brown eyes widened. "What? Why? Do you even know her?"

But Melina was barely listening; there was a faraway look in her eyes. "She said Drew was murdered," she whispered, more to herself than to John.

"What? McIntyre _murdered_? How does she know that?" John took a look at his girlfriend and sighed. "Mel, you don't believe all that do you? I mean, how do you know it's not just some nut job?"

"No. She sounded serious. She said she has information about Phil." She looked up at John. "I have to talk to her."

"Melina-"

"What if she's telling the truth? It's worth a try, isn't it? This could be the break we need, the one we just talked about."

"All right. In that case I'll come with you."

Melina shook her head rapidly. "No, no, she wants me to come alone."

That set John off. "Okay, _seriously_, this isn't some hostage negotiation-"

"She sounded scared, John, scared for her safety. I don't want to scare her off. Otherwise we may just blow away what looks like our only chance of moving forward with this case. Just trust me on this one, sweetie. Please?"

For a moment John looked like he wanted to argue, but he was very aware that he would not win. Taking her gently by the shoulders, he said, "Of course I trust you, babe. I trust you and I trust your judgment. But please, _please_ be careful."

"I will. I promise."

That night Melina barely slept. She spent every waking moment thinking about her meeting with Tiffany; hoping that she would find the answers she was so desperately seeking. This was the only lifeline they had and she planned to seize it with both hands.

* * *

_**A/N: Oh, I really hoped it was good! Please let me know! Working on the next chapter as we speak! Thanks y'all!**_


	9. You Be The Judge

_**A/N: Thank you to **__**DarkAngelElektra**__**, **__**SuperRainbowMuffin**__**, **__**Humpaz2210**__**, **__**Hardly Here**__**, **__**nikki1335**__** and **__**Mattaggot**__** for the lovely reviews. They make me so happy. I wrote this chapter in 3 days, which is a rather short time by my standards. I hope it lives up to expectations! Please leave a review after reading. Enjoy!**_

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_**9.**_ _**You Be The Judge**_

Dr. James walked into her office, wearing a polite smile on her face for her patient and ignoring the uncomfortable thumping in her chest. "Good morning, Mr. Brooks."

Punk returned her smile, though it was not as bright as hers. "Morning."

"Oh wow," she exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. "I got a greeting back. The gods must be smiling on me today."

At her words, Punk lowered his head, his cheeks reddening. "Yeah, about that," he began sheepishly, "I'm sorry about how I acted the last time I was here. You were only trying to do your job and…"

Mickie was already waving his speech away. "That's okay. First few days tend to be really rough, so it's understandable. So, how have you been feeling since your last visit?"

_Like I've been through hell_, Punk thought. He thought what he had endured during those eight hellacious months under the unforgiving glare of the media spotlight was bad. Over a week in this hell-hole called Titan State was beyond his worst nightmare.

"Any panic attacks?"

_Yes, this morning and for the past three nights since Mr. Sadism was ass-pounding some poor kid to hell next door_. But he kept shtum, and his lack of response aggravated the Doctor. "Panic attacks can very fatal if they're not treated right, Phil," she explained patiently.

Almost at once, she realized his name had just slipped out of her mouth. At first she thought he would say something in protest, but he didn't, to her relief. "I'm getting better," he insisted, shifting his sitting position on the narrow check-up bed.

She didn't totally believe him, but she nodded in response. "Okay, then. You're due another dose today." She made her way towards the standing cabinet to dispense the drugs. "So, you went to Northwestern?"

Slightly taken back, Punk lifted an eyebrow. "I like to get to know my patients," Mickie clarified, returning with his medication. He threw them into his mouth without drinking any water. "I attended Loyola, got in a year after you did. Pre-med."

"Business major," said Punk after a few moments, deciding that he had little to lose by making conversation. "But I dropped out of college in my sophomore year to pursue my wrestling career. I obviously couldn't do both, so I dumped school and took to the squared circle. Wrestling, I mean."

Mickie leaned against her desk, crossing her arms across her chest. "Yeah, I saw that in your file. Very interesting."

_Interesting_. He got that a lot, and it never failed to sound condescending and drenched in mockery and prejudice. However Mickie seemed different, like she was genuinely interested in learning more about his work. But again, wasn't that what she got paid to do? "My grandfather's sentiments exactly," Punk said wryly.

"So I take it your grandfather didn't approve, then," she said, genuinely curious, but at the same time relieved that he seemed to be opening up. "Were you close to him?"

"We used to be. Let's just say he was less than pleased with my career choice. Imagine the grandson of Harold Brooks becoming an Indy wrestler." He held up his hands in mock horror. "The shame."

Looking absolutely flabbergasted, Mickie blinked. "Wait a minute, Harold Brooks? The guy who owns half of Chicago? _You're_ his grandson?"

Everybody knew Harold Brooks. He was a veteran in the banking and finance world, one of Wall Street's finest and a legend in Chicago. His passing nearly a year ago made headlines throughout the state of Illinois and beyond. Most finance analysts believed he had never recovered from the loss of his investment bank to the modern-day Grim Reaper that was the Recession. From being one of the most financially powerful men in the land to suffering the humiliation of bankruptcy, all within two years, seemed to take its toll on the old man.

Punk was saying, with a roll his eyes, "Only by default."

She hadn't missed the hostile tone in his voice. "How so?"

"We stopped seeing eye to eye on a lot of things, mainly his visions of grandeur for me. He wanted me to become this major hotshot on Wall Street like he was; learn the ropes in one of the smaller firms before I stepped in to take over his empire. To him I was the perfect heir; the Bud Fox to his Gordon Gekko." With a half-shrug, he shook his head. "I didn't want that. That sort of life was never for me. So I left home, started wrestling, and when he found out about it he basically shut me out of his life."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mickie said sincerely.

"It didn't matter," Punk countered, chuckling cynically. "I stopped caring about what he had to say a long time ago. Prior to his passing we hadn't spoken in nine years, and I got along fine."

Mickie watched the flitting expressions on her patient's face. As aloof as he sounded when he spoke, she could see traces of pain and bitterness, maybe even regret, in his eyes. "Are you sure that wasn't a bad thing? I mean, you stopped talking to him and look where you ended up."

By the time she realized how that sounded, it was too late. The words were already out. "I…I'm sorry," she stammered. "That came out very wrong-"

But Punk was livid. "So you think if I kissed my wealthy grandfather's ass, I wouldn't be in here," he demanded, his voice dangerously low. "You think my girlfriend's dead because of what I do for a living? You think because I'm a wrestler it makes me nothing more than a violent, jacked-up psychopath? Huh?"

His tone dripped with malicious sarcasm, and Mickie struggled to backtrack. "I didn't say that," she said, desperation creeping into her voice.

"You didn't have to!" His glare was unwavering, scalding, forcing her to look away. "Now you listen to me, _Doc_! Just because you read some shit in a file don't mean you know me, so don't you stand there and judge me, okay?"

Without waiting to be discharged he jumped off the bed and strode towards the door, yanking it open and storming out. The startled CO practically had to run to keep up with him.

Mickie stared after them until they were out of sight, then let out an exasperated sigh. "You just couldn't _shut up_, could you?"

* * *

Natalya, Titan State's head nurse and Mickie's best friend, walked in a few hours later. "Here are the files you wanted," she said, handing them to her.

"Oh, thanks," Mickie said gratefully, picking out one and dropping the rest on her table.

"I have had the most insane day," Natalya went on, throwing her hands in the air for emphasis.

_You and me both, sister._ "And I bet you're gonna tell me all about it," Mickie replied, not looking up as she set to work with her reports. Natalya watched her with a slight frown. "Only if you're gonna listen," she griped, perching herself on the edge of Mickie's desk. "You've barely looked at me since I walked in."

"You ever heard of multi-tasking, Neidhart?" Mickie asked rather sarcastically. "This means that I can work _and _listen to you at the same time. Fascinating concept, isn't it?"

"Ha, ha, bitch." Natalya tilted her head to peer at the photograph inside the open file on the desk. "Cute," she remarked.

Mickie followed her gaze and shrank back almost immediately. Punk's brooding face glowered at her, as if still chastising her for her tactlessness earlier in the day. "Inmate," she reminded her friend, quickly shutting the file as if to protect a deep, dark secret.

"So what?" Natalya asked, rolling her eyes when Mickie turned to her with a look of shock. "_What?_ I'm a red-blooded woman."

Mickie tittered. "Oh yeah. I almost forgot about your impeccable taste in men. No man, resident _or_ surgeon, single or married, is safe when _you're_ lurking around."

Natalya and Mickie had met at a Halloween party in their first year at Medical School a few years ago, and had been inseparable ever since. Blonde, built and busty, Natalya was much more outgoing of the two, doing enough talking and flirting for the both of them, while Mickie was more introverted and observant. Despite their different personalities, they were the best of friends. Natalya was the only person Mickie could safely say she could trust with her life.

Natalya pretended to pout, crossing her arms. "In my defense, I didn't have much to pick from at Med School, okay?"

"And you do at a correctional facility?"

"Oh, don't be so judgmental!"

Was it her, or had she head that "judge" word a bit too often today?

"At least _I'm_ looking," Natalya continued. "_You_ on the other hand…"

She shot Mickie a knowing look, and the brunette sighed heavily. "Oh Nat, _please_ don't start…"

"I'm not starting anything," Natalya answered defensively, then added in a much more serious tone, "I'm just saying…MJ, it's been two years. I thought you said you've put it behind you."

Refusing to meet her friend's eye, Mickie ruffled through the other files, trying to look busy. "And I have," she assured her, but the words didn't sound convincing to either woman. Natalya eyed her friend with concern. "The past is the past, MJ. You have to move on. You can't let what happened tie you down-"

"We are _so_ not talking about this right now." Mickie glared up at Natalya, who finally relented. "Okay, okay. I'll tell you what. Let's go out tonight; meet some people, have some fun. And don't even think about changing your mind. You always say you got a lot of work to do, but guess what, honey? _So do I!_" She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. "Come on, Mickie. It'll be fun, I promise."

"Somehow I doubt it," Mickie grumbled. The blonde nurse had been trying to set her up for months now, and every single date had ended in disaster. Mickie knew that she was much better off working than wasting her valuable time acquainting herself with someone she was never going to give a fuck about. But Natalya had already sniffed out her intended escape clause, and was having none of it.

"Mickie! Are you listening to me?" Natalya pressed, gently shaking her shoulder. "You're coming out with me and I'm not taking no for an answer!"

"Fine," the Doctor conceded, sighing heavily, "but I'm not staying for more than two hours. After that I'm going home, _comprende_?"

"We'll see." She hated when Natalya gave her that smug look. It always spelled trouble. Always.

When Natalya was gone, Mickie's eyes turned back to the file still on her table. Taking a deep breath, she slowly reopened it.

Philip Jack Brooks. The man who called himself CM Punk.

If their first encounter had ended awkwardly, today's had gone down in flames. She hadn't meant to be so insensitive. She'd been so glad he had opened up that she went overboard inadvertently. Their previous meeting left her very curious about him. She had done a little background check on him, as she did nearly all of her patients, and on discovering what he was serving time for, she'd been in utter disbelief. He certainly didn't look like a murderer. But then again, how many of them did?

What she had done was wrong. Mickie knew better than anyone that a book could never be judged by its cover. Besides whether he did commit the crime or not, she was in no place to be criticizing anyone, not with her own recent history…

Unpleasant memroies began to swim around in her head, and Mickie suddenly felt so overwhelmed that she had to shut her eyes and take a few deep, slow breaths. Damn Nattie for dredging all that up again.

As she returned to writing her reports, Phil Brooks remained on her mind. She wondered if he was ever going to show up at the infirmary again. If he indeed decided not to, she would be lying if she said she wouldn't be disappointed.

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_**A/N: So…how was it?**_


	10. Leave Me To Myself

_**A/N: Thank you SO MUCH for the last chapter's reviews. I expected a few more, but that's okay. Like the trooper that I am I will continue to update, and fingers crossed that you fabulous people take the time to review. This chapter stumped me for weeks, by the way, but I hope it's up to standard. Enjoy!**_

_**A/A/N: Although reports suggest that he requested it, I am still sad that MVP has been released. He and Christian should have been World champions by now. I love the guy and I wish him the very best in everything he does.**_

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_**10. Leave Me To Myself**_

John Cena and Dave Batista spent the entire time in commissary furtively watching CM Punk. Ever since the Fish returned from the infirmary that morning, he'd become even more surly and irritable than usual. Actually, he'd been this way since the "encounter" between Randy Orton and Evan Bourne some nights ago. Cena himself had been awake at the time and heard the entire thing – much to his disgust. Rape was not an uncommon occurrence within the prison walls, but the thought of it happening to them never failed to terrify the living daylights out of even the most hard-boiled, intimidating men. It was so much more than just your body being violated. It was everything else; your pride, your self-respect, your masculinity; all these were abruptly, violently stripped away, never to return again, while the victim was reduced to a shell of his former self; an organism with two legs that walked and talked and contemplated suicide for the rest of his life, that is, if he didn't possess the intestinal fortitude to actually do it. In the eyes of any man, it was a fate worse than death itself.

MVP finally returned to the table, having disappeared for several minutes, sitting beside Batista, who looked around surreptitiously. Punk could hear a faint rustling coming from underneath the table but he didn't need to look over to know what it was. In his short time in incarceration, he had learned that Montel Vontavious Porter was the guy everyone went to if they wanted anything contraband-related. Of course, it all came with a price. And judging from the satisfied look on his face today was one of his more profitable days.

"Five hundred," he replied happily, bumping fists with Batista and Cena. "Business is good, homies."

"What exactly is Titan Demolition about?" Punk spoke up for the first time that morning, which pretty much sent the table into silence. Even with everything that was on his mind, he hadn't forgotten about Warden Guerrero's offer. Though he knew that he hadn't allowed her to finish, he figured it was better to hear it from the inmates themselves. At least he doubted that they would sugarcoat any of the details.

The three men looked at each other. Batista decided to speak first. "It's a series of matches." He paused. "_Death_ matches."

"Okay, back up!" Punk cut him off by putting up a hand. "_Death_?"

"Yep," Cena confirmed grimly. "You win, or you die."

"It does cut down gen-pop like a motherfucker, though," MVP offered, trailing off when Batista shot him a dirty look. "That's why Vickie wanted to see you, right? Did she ask you to participate?" the big man asked Punk, who nodded, his expression thoughtful. Batista, Cena and MVP exchanged looks again. "And what did you say?"

"I said no."

All three of them looked floored by this response. "No?" MVP exclaimed. "You told Vickie no? Dude, you got balls!"

"Well, I _am_ a dude," Punk quipped.

"No, for real," insisted Montel. "As long as you're in here, you ain't gettin' away with that. In her eyes you've disrespected her, and that woman's vindictive as hell. She's gonna do you greasy. Maybe not now, but when she does, you're gonna feel it in your bones." He made a hissing sound, jabbing his index finger into the inside of his elbow. "Real deep, son."

Cena and Batista nodded grimly in agreement. Great. Psychotic inmates, crazy COs, and now Jezebel for a Warden. Wasn't life grand?

A fight suddenly broke out at the other end of the commissary, causing a fracas as prisoners converged in on the affected area and the COs made futile attempts at breaking up the fight. At that same moment, Randy Orton sauntered into Punk's line of sight, and hatred immediately began to bubble within the Chicago native.

No doubt that motherfucker Orton was a cocky bastard. But Punk had watched him, scrutinized him. Arrogance was just a fragment of his persona, the only giveaway that he possessed any human qualities. Underneath the GQ-model handsomeness lurked a disturbed, menacing individual. The cold, dead blue eyes that only came to life when he was about to inflict indescribable torture, the smiles that never quite managed to reach those eyes; his movements graceful, leisurely even, but exuded wicked purpose and evoked pity for his victim. All were traits of an unrepentant sadist. True happiness was a foreign concept to him. Even the green grass underneath him seemed to wither from each of his footsteps. This was truly an evil man.

Come to think of it, it was difficult to pin such a morbid description on anyone other than the Devil himself.

With his newly-crooked nose, Orton made his way over to a table. Its only occupant, a young inmate who couldn't have been older than twenty-one years old, sat alone while everyone else had rushed off to egg on the two fighting men. He looked up, visibly shuddering when his eyes fell upon Randy. So that was the kid Orton had sunk his claws into, Punk thought sourly. Such a skinny little thing. He stood no chance in hell against Orton, the sick pedophile bastard.

"I'll see you tonight," Orton said to the terrified inmate. They were several feet away from his table, but Punk had heard every word. It was as if his surroundings had magically tuned everything else out until the only thing Punk could hear, the only thing he could concentrate on, was Orton's cold, malicious baritone whispering into that boy's ear. Looking away, Punk shoved his food tray aside. Suddenly he had lost what little appetite he already had.

"That guy's an asshole," MVP commented, his brown eyes fixed on Orton. The mood on their table had abruptly sobered. That was the Randy Orton effect and there was nothing pleasant about it.

"You ain't kidding," Batista agreed, shaking his head. Cena, however, had not taken his eyes off Punk. "We really think you should reconsider your decision, Punk," he said, rather suddenly.

The heads of both Batista and MVP bobbed up and down, affirming the words of the former NFL superstar. At first Punk didn't understand what they were referring to, but it soon clicked. "What, the Demolition thing?" He let out a snort of derisive laughter. "You're fucking with me, right?"

"With your wrestling background you already have an edge over everybody else," Batista said, "and with further training, we think you can win."

"Orton thinks he's the shit because he won the last one," MVP explained. "But we all know he ain't. If there's anybody that can kick his ass, it's you."

Maybe he had imagined it, but Punk thought he saw what looked like hope in each of their eyes. They hadn't forgotten his fight with Orton; his speed, the power he packed in his fists and the look in his eyes as he smashed them into Orton's face; they'd a glimpse of what he was capable of, and evidently, they liked what they saw.

Well, tough. "Forget it," he said bluntly.

"Yo, do you understand what's at stake this time around?" MVP tried to make the former Indy wrestler see reason, "the winner of the tournament gets his freedom back!"

Though Punk remained silent, one could easily see his patience dissipating fast, and Batista jumped in to salvage the situation. "Look, we're just sayin'. This is your chance to walk outta here and start your life over."

Now they were nagging, and the Chicago native was becoming irritated by it. "I'll tell you what I told the Warden; I'm not taking part in your stupid contest. That thing that happened with Orton was a one-off. I don't wrestle or fight anymore."

"Come on, Punk," Cena said, sounding exasperated. "We all know that you don't _belong_ here. You're a tough guy, but you ain't no girlfriend killer-"

"And what the hell do _you_ know?" Punk shot back. First the Warden, then Dr. James, and now these three. All these fuckers were really starting to push his buttons. "What, because I talk to you every day you think you know what I am? And why the sudden change of heart, Cena?" He turned on his cellmate, who held his glare unwaveringly. "I saw how you looked at me the first time I walked into your cell. You didn't take me for shit! Now seven, eight days later you think you got me all figured out, huh?"

Slowly, Cena nodded, acknowledging the valid point. "Listen," he began evenly, "about why you got in here; I admit I was a bit…unsure at first. Everybody who walks in here always has some story to tell; 'I didn't do it, I didn't do it', and I got sick of it. I know it sounds like bullshit but I don't know; I feel like I've been wrong about you. You're different."

In response, Punk laughed; a low, grating sound that contained no humor whatsoever. "Right, I feel _so_ much better now," he said, rolling his eyes.

Convinced that this was going absolutely nowhere, Batista sighed and dropped his head. However, MVP plowed on valiantly. "Hey man, we just want you to think about it-"

"I _have_ thought about it, Montel," Punk said, a hint of impatient finality in his voice. "And I'm not doing it! End of discussion."

The tense, awkward silence that followed was thankfully broken when the bell went off, signifying the end of their stay in the cafeteria. Good, thought Punk, already feeling suffocated where he was. He stood up, skipped over the bench he sat on and strode off without waiting for the others.

Why couldn't everyone just get that he didn't want anyone psychoanalyzing him? The guys, Dr. James; what fucking good had it done him so far? And if it was so damn effective, why hadn't anyone spread the gospel all those months ago, before his life spiraled out of control? Fuck it. He didn't want anyone getting to know him, because they all ended up getting hurt by him. Of the few people who had bothered, one was dead, supposedly by his own hand, and the other two were on the other side of these God-forsaken walls, their valiant attempts at restoring his freedom coming to no avail. His grandfather, already a disappointed man before he died, was probably now turning over in his grave. He couldn't even do something as simple as keeping his girlfriend out of harm's way, or from even turning her back on him. Hell, he couldn't even help himself.

So how in the heck was he supposed to survive several death matches?

As he approached the back of the line retreating towards the cell blocks, his eyes fell upon one of the big, loud posters which now adorned every wall within the prison grounds, taking a good look at it for the first time.

_**MAYHEM! DESTRUCTION! GLORY!**_

_**THE WORLD'S BIGGEST BLOODBATH IS BACK…AND BETTER THAN EVER!**_

_**TITAN STATE PENITENTIARY PRESENTS:**_

_**TITAN DEMOLITION**_

_**COMING SOON ON PAY-PER-VIEW**_

Nah, no more. He was done fighting, done talking. His world had ended when Maria was murdered. There was no point looking to be free when there was nothing to live for anymore.

"_Help me_."

For a moment he thought his mind was playing some cruel game with him, and that wouldn't have been a first. But when he turned in the direction of the voice, he saw the boy Orton had just scared shitless, staring up at him with huge, fearful eyes. "Help me," he pleaded, coming closer. "I can't take it anymore. He'll kill me. Please."

His voice was less than a whisper; anguished, tortured. His eyes shone brightly with the pain he'd been enduring at the hands of Orton. But another emotion battled for supremacy within those bloodshot depths, something identical to what Punk had seen from Batista, MVP and Cena. Like them, the boy had also witnessed the beating handed to Orton, awed by how this new inmate had managed to make the monster, if only for a while, seem mortal. To Evan, he was a demigod, and his last hope to free himself from Orton's clutches.

For Punk however, it felt like being on the outside looking in to an oncoming train wreck, and it was very unnerving indeed. Clearly, this boy was trapped in a personal hell, one that the Chicago native believed that any rescue attempt, no matter what way he tried, would be futile.

"Bourne! Get your ass back here!"

Cody Rhodes and Ted DiBiase suddenly materialized behind Bourne and dragged him aside. Rhodes then fixed his scathing glare on Punk. The young man looked like he'd spent many a time gazing into a mirror. Punk reckoned he was a shave or two away from becoming mistaken for one of the resident trannies. "We'd appreciate it if you kept your hands off Orton's property, _Punk-ass_," Rhodes said. The two men looked up at the poster in front of them, then they turned to Punk, who, for reasons only his body could explain, tensed visibly. He felt like he'd been caught cheating in a test by proctors. But Rhodes and DiBiase caught on and immediately put two and two together. "So, _you_ want to enter Titan Demolition," Cody said, struggling to rein in his laughter. "Well, _that's_ a laugh."

"Orton won last time around," Ted said proudly, like it was _his_ achievement. "This one won't be any different and we'll make sure of that. So if you know what's good for you, you'll stay away."

Despite the obvious threat, Punk felt his lips pull back in a smirk. "Or what is he gonna do? Sic his two bitches on me?" he taunted.

Orton's cohorts frowned, and the Chicago native could tell that they wanted to hurt him. "You think it's funny now," Ted sneered, "you won't be laughing when you find each of your toes lying all over the yard."

"Right," Cody chimed in, sharing a knowing smirk with his friend. "So don't say we didn't warn you, _Punk-ass_."

With one last collective dirty look, they ushered Evan away, leaving Punk standing there.

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_**A/N: Chapter title was taken from the song "Hemorrhage (In My Hands)" by Fuel. I hope you liked it. And the "poster" too. I would have created a better one and posted a link somewhere but I don't know how, really. Very soon we'll start seeing more players in this game and begin to uncover the truth behind the situation with Punk. But I would still welcome your suggestions. Who should be involved and how? And who are your favorite characters so far? **_

_**Thank you so much for reading! Peace! **_


	11. It's Easier To Run

_**A/N: Much, much, MUCH love to **DarkAngelElektra, Hailey Egan, nikki1335, rebelwilla, Mattaggot & DashingMrsRhodes, ScabiorHermionex and BellaMaryseEveFan** for reviewing the last chapter. That is a lot of reviews! Thank you all so much! *receive your individual hug here* **_

_**I am VERY grateful to everyone who took time to read, alert, favorite and review all of my stories throughout 2010. I hope you continue as they genuinely encourage me to keep on writing. There are more stories in the works and hopefully I'll put them up soon. Here's wishing all my fellow authors and readers a smashing 2011. Here's Chapter 11. Writer's block is a bitch, by the way. Please, please review!**_

_**A/A/N: Though the chapter title is gotten from the song "Easier to Run" by Linkin Park (AWESOME song, by the way) I would suggest listening to Evanescence's "Lithium" while reading this chapter. I tried it while proofreading and I promise you, it will be an awesome experience! Let me know if it was. Mwah!**_

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_**11. It's Easier To Run**_

The law offices of Helmsley & Michaels were located on the outskirts of central Chicago, miles away from where other law firms were saturated. That didn't hurt the influx of clientele in any way though; they took pride in the fact that they were different from all the other firms. They were small compared with other firms; only fifty lawyers. They didn't hire too many people; about two every other year. They were _very_ selective. The partners themselves made the selections. The letter that each successful candidate received was sent after over two thousand third-year law students at the best schools had been screened. They did not advertise openings and they did not solicit applications. They kept a low profile and operated differently. However, they offered the highest salaries in the country, and this was no exaggeration. They took only rich clients-corporations, banks and wealthy people who paid their healthy fees without complaint. They knew that they were dealing with the best of the best; from their tasteful but expensive-looking offices to the bright young stars recruited to oil their already well-run machine and maintain their lofty standards.

Melina and Morrison never forgot that they were integral parts of this elite group, which was why she made sure she had carried out this particular task in private. It was bad enough that Hunter Helmsley and Shawn Michaels, her cautious, multimillionaire superiors, were less-than-pleased with her decision to further pursue the Maria Kanellis murder case. She just hoped that the effort, as well as the rest of the day, did not go to waste.

"Hey, Melina," Kofi Kingston greeted as he entered her plush office. A junior associate of the firm, he was one of the very few people that supported her "lost cause" and had gone out of his way to help her. "I got the info you asked for," he informed her, handing her a thin, tan-colored portfolio. Melina held out both hands as if it were the Holy Grail she was receiving. "You, Kofi, are a lifesaver," she said.

"Eh, that's why I'm here," he shrugged, "to do all the dirty work."

Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, Melina flipped open the file and began to read.

The name of the mystery woman who called her was Tiffany Terrell. Judging from her youthful features shown in the photograph provided, Melina figured she couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old. A former stripper, Tiffany was thought to be heavily involved in the drug trafficking business with her boyfriend, Drew McIntyre. Tiffany had been arrested on several occasions for driving under the influence of alcohol, and another rap sheet had her jailed briefly for possession of narcotics. The rest of her criminal record was littered with joint misdemeanors and felonies with McIntyre. Obviously business was mixed with pleasure in this relationship, the proverbial Bonnie and Clyde. Sure, perfect couple they were not, but it didn't mean that any of them had to be murdered for it, assuming Tiffany's claims were true.

In a few minutes, that would be determined.

Thanking Kofi again, Melina stepped out of the building, and commenced her trip to the diner downtown that Tiffany had requested that they meet. Melina had a vague idea of the whereabouts of the only decent one in that neighborhood. She was not the biggest fan of the area; it was one of the poorer, neglected parts of town and crime level was at an all-time high. It never mattered whether it was day or night; something wrong was always going down. She suddenly wished she had John here with her.

The first thing she observed when she stepped into Del Rio's – the name of the restaurant – was the smell of burning food wafting through the 1950's-style establishment. Two bottle-blonde waitresses, dressed accordingly with the theme of the diner, sauntered around attending to customers, looking surly and chewing their gum a little too loudly. Elvis Presley blasted out of the dusty old jukebox sitting in the corner. Most of the people inside the diner were couples and work colleagues grabbing a quick coffee before heading to their offices. There was no sign of Tiffany.

Walking further in, Melina looked toward the far corner, and her eyes fell upon one table in particular, the one closest to the exit where a young blonde woman sat alone, looking all fidgety. It was the woman in the photo, Tiffany Terrell, no doubt about it. Her thoughts were confirmed when the woman met her glance, then her eyes widened as her gaze traveled over the lawyer's shoulder. Melina would never forget how petrified she looked at that moment. Suddenly, Tiffany shot out of her seat and slipped out through the exit behind her. Stunned, Melina followed her. "Tiffany?" she called out.

The young woman walked rapidly, yanking her hood over her head and shoving her hands into her coat pocket. She stole a quick glance over her shoulder, and her brisk walk transformed into a jog.

"Tiffany?" Melina set off after her. Where the hell was she going? "Tiffany!"

But she picked up speed, breaking into a full-fledged sprint as she turned around the bend. "Tiffany, wait!" Melina bumped hard several times into pedestrians in her haste, while Tiffany weaved effortlessly through the moving crowd. Melina was a champion runner in a previous life, but even she couldn't outrun someone who had spent a great deal of her life running from forces bigger, or more dangerous, than nosy lawyers. Still she remained determined; determined not to lose what was surely her last hope of keeping this case alive.

Luckily she was gaining on Tiffany; she could almost touch her now. All hope abruptly evaporated however, when she collided nastily with a man riding a bicycle. Both crashed to the ground.

"Watch where you're going, damn it!" The man told Melina heatedly, staggering back upon his bicycle and riding off. Melina returned to her feet, craning her neck to try and see into the crowd for Tiffany. But it was no use. She was gone.

"Fuck!" Melina screamed in frustration, spinning around in the same spot. What in the _hell _was she going to do now?

Across the busy street, a man wearing dark sunglasses and a black coat watched the entire scene unfold. He pulled out his cell phone and put it to his ear. "I've found her," he spoke gruffly.

"Then you know what to do."

Snapping the phone shut, the man with the sunglasses and black coat began a brisk walk of his own.

* * *

Tiffany collapsed against the foot of her small bed, burying her face in her hands and sobbing bitterly. She spent the last half-hour dashing around her tiny hotel room throwing in items of clothing into a big brown suitcase; once the adrenaline subsided she was physically and emotionally drained and reduced to a blubbering mess. Since Drew died she no longer knew what to do with herself. He had been her rock, her strength. Now he was gone and she was alone. Sadly, the feeling was not unfamiliar to Tiffany.

Her early life was a story of rags to rags, which no "riches" in sight. Like a lot of kids, Tiffany grew up wanting to be rich and powerful. She had dreams and aspirations of greatness, of material wealth and human influence. But like so many others before her, reality bitch-slapped her, and she soon found herself taking off her clothes, swinging around a pole, and picking dollar bills out of her thong for a living.

Every day she had had to endure feelings of insignificance and shame that had weighed heavily on her mind. But she was determined to get out of Reno, and that rat-trap sham of a home, away from her lousy-ass mother and her pieces-of-shit boyfriends who never tried to hide their attraction to her daughter. Tiffany settled in faraway Chicago, set out to do anything she had to do to make life a little more bearable for her. If getting naked and pretending to enjoy it were what she had to do, then so be it. Time passed and she remained stuck in the same damn sleazy rut, forced to endure the torture that girls in her line of work encountered. Tiffany seemed destined to be alone and destitute for the rest of her life.

Then she met Andrew McIntyre.

They met at a liquor store a few years ago after one of her shows. Born and raised in Glasgow, Scotland, Drew was an illegal immigrant who had managed to make a success out of himself as a low-key middleman in the drug smuggling business within the Chicago underworld. Tiffany was immediately attracted to his 'tall, dark and handsome' stature, and his accent was an absolute turn-on. But they shared a lot in common, and he seemed to understand everything she was going through. Within days of meeting each other, they were dating. She quit stripping and helped him with his drug runs. They said goodbye to squalid living and moved in together in a nice little condo in the suburbs. For a long time, life was relatively stable, until the day they found themselves tangled with a high-profile murder case.

From then on, their lives became a living hell.

At first Drew came forward to the lawyers handling the case. But the moment an anonymous caller contacted him threatening his life and Tiffany's, the couple got out of dodge. They went into hiding for the entire duration of the trial, and didn't return to Chicago until Drew got into serious trouble with the law and faced deportation. They were forced to go back to Chicago, living in a shabby cheap apartment.

However, as time went by, it turned out that Tiffany had more significant ties to the murder case than anyone ever realized. Consumed with guilt, she told Drew everything and constantly begged him to let her come out with the truth. Maybe this would overturn the decision to deport him and they would be protected by the government. But he refused. First of all,_ nobody_ was going to believe her, giving her criminal record, and they were already in enough trouble and danger as it was.

That decision would prove to be fatal.

Tiffany walked around every day with the eerie sensation that she was being watched. But the day she arrived home to the body of her boyfriend lying naked amongst used syringes, empty sachets of dirty heroin and contaminated crack cocaine, she knew what had happened, who had done it and why. More tragically, she knew she was next, and she knew she had to _do _something.

Calling Melina Perez had been part of the plan. Being followed to Del Rio's by that man had not. So she ran like a coward. But Drew would have been disappointed in her, and she couldn't bear to harbor that thought, add another bleak reflection to the ones already running through her mind. She decided to attempt to do the right thing one more time.

Whipping out a pen and paper, Tiffany took a deep breath and began to write. She didn't stop until she had put down everything she knew and could remember; everything Drew had told her, everything she had seen and heard. Why she hadn't done this in the first place she didn't know. Without thinking, she had put herself back in the open again. But she had stopped thinking rationally when Drew died. That did not matter anymore. She had very little left to lose.

By the time she completed the letter, one hour had passed. She craved for a long, hot bath. It always managed to calm her down no matter what she was going through.

Entering the bathroom, she turned on the two taps and poured a little shower gel into the rapidly rising water. With some effort she stripped off her clothes, dumping them on the floor. Slipping into the bathtub, she sighed as the heat enveloped her and her body gave in to the fatigue.

God, she felt so fucking tired…

She let her head rest against the wall, her eyes drifting shut. She decided she would mail the letter to Miss Perez as she left town for her sister's place tomorrow. Tiffany planned to be long gone by the time the lawyer received it.

The bath water cooled and the bubbles dissipated, and soon she was fast asleep. As a result she didn't hear her front door open, or the footfalls that glided silently across her apartment and into the bathroom, like a ghost. She only awoke when a large, gloved hand grabbed a handful of her hair and forcibly shoved her underwater.

The soapy water surged into Tiffany's nostrils and mouth as she screamed in alarm, filling her lungs instantly. Her eyes stung painfully. Choking and spluttering and filled with terror, she grabbed at his wrist and dug her nails into his arm. Her legs thrashed violently, bathtub water flying everywhere as she tried valiantly to break his hold. But he only pressed down harder, submerging her completely. Through the clear water, she managed a glance into her attacker's face, nearly bursting into tears when she recognized him. His expression was calm as he now held her thin legs down to the bottom of the tub with his other hand to stop her kicking about.

Like Drew, she had been found. And like Drew, she was going to die. But she tried to force her already weakening body to give herself a chance and fight for her life.

Except that she _never stood a chance_ to begin with.

Water had now completely engulfed her system, and her attacker still held onto her, not letting go until she finally stilled, her legs and arms going limp and her lifeless body settling at the bottom of the tub. With that, the man with the dark sunglasses and black coat got off his knees and walked out of the apartment, as quietly as he had come in.

Like a ghost.

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_**A/N: That was the first ICTF post of 2011! I hope you thought it was good! *crosses fingers* What do you think will, or should, happen next? Let me know with a review! Peace!**_


	12. No Other Option

_**A/N: Like my other updates, I post this chapter with a heavy heart. As we all know, Adam Copeland, aka Edge, one of my favorite wrestlers on the planet, has decided to retire. I understand that his health was in serious jeopardy, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm going to miss seeing him on TV. He has been in a few of my stories and I even have him in some of my upcoming ones but I don't think I'm going to write him out of them because, quite simply, I can't see anyone else taking his place. He's such a perfect fit. With that said, I dedicate this chapter to the Rated-R Superstar. Thank you, Edge! You will be sorely missed. *doing the 'horns' sign***_

_**I want to give a big thank you to Mattaggot, DashingMrsRhodes, Christina89, nikki1335, hsv81896, BellaEveMaryseFan, Estheroxoxo, Humpaz2210 and MishaMuse**_ _**for the fabulous reviews. I truly, truly appreciate it!**_

_**This chapter contains disturbing themes.**_

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_**12. No Other Option**_

"Dr. James, Brooks is here."

The CO's gruff voice drew a soft groan from Mickie as she turned and forced a smile on her lips. Work had begun only five hours ago and she was ready to write it off as a bad day. She'd already fended off three overly aggressive inmates, the three new doctors seemed to be forgetting everything they had learned in medical school, and Natalya was getting on her nerves. And just when she thought her day couldn't get any worse, Phil Brooks was here. She didn't know why she was allowing this inmate to unnerve her like this, but he was. It was so bad that she had considered transferring him to of the other doctors, but with the way they'd all been performing she might as well have been sending him to an early grave. So she had to put up with him. She didn't have a choice, which sucked.

The CO pushed Punk into the office and stood guard outside. Punk shuffled towards the high bed in the corner and sat on it, keeping his eyes on the ground. As she monitored his vitals, Mickie noticed how quiet he was. Maybe it was a good thing, for both of them. Their conversations always seemed to nosedive, anyway. "Okay," she said when she was done. "So, how have you been feeling this past week? Better?" She kept the discussion on a professional angle. The last thing she wanted was for him to blow up at her again for asking too many personal questions.

"A little," he replied; another lie. He wasn't any calmer than he was when he first got here. Maria still invaded his dreams. Evan Bourne refused to leave him alone. He would come begging for Punk's help whenever he thought Orton and his cronies were not looking, his pleas growing increasingly desperate. Punk knew Orton was still molesting him, and as terrible as he felt, as cowardly as he knew his actions were, he knew he couldn't get himself involved. Orton was just dying for a chance to get his hands on him and Punk was not willing to hand the opportunity to him on a plate.

Mickie took notes, conscious of the fact that again, he wasn't being completely honest with her. But she learned the hard way that it was solely up to him to open up on his own. "Okay. I was thinking of commencing cognitive therapy with you in a couple of days," she said. "It's nothing major; it's just a few techniques that will help you further reduce the number of panic attacks you have. Is that okay?"

Mickie kept her eyes on him, waiting for his approval. What did he have to lose? "Sure, why not?" he answered.

"Alright then. I'll go get your meds. I'll be back in a second."

She exited the room and said something to the CO at the door before walking off. Punk sighed. She was being a little cold to him today and he couldn't say he blamed her. All she was trying to do was do her job and he kept shooting her down. Mickie returned a short moment later. She handed him two pills and made sure he swallowed them in her presence. "So, I was thinking we could begin therapy at your next visit. Oh, and this is yours."

In her outstretched hand was a plastic bottle of Pepsi. When he sent her a quizzical look, Mickie shrugged. "Um…I know we got off to a bad start…make that _two_ bad starts actually…and I saw your Pepsi tattoo and I figured…you know…" Jeez, when did she become tongue-tied around anyone, let alone around an _inmate_?

Punk, meanwhile, couldn't stop the small smile that spread across his face. He thought it was quite kind of her, actually. He took the bottle from her. "Um, wow…thank you Doctor, although I should be the one apologizing."

"You don't need to-" she began.

"No seriously. You're only trying to do your job, and I'm sorry I've been making it so hard for you." He paused. "I apologize a lot, don't I?" he added awkwardly.

Mickie sent him an assuring smile. "It's fine, I promise. Just keep the soda on the down low, okay?" she said, adding with a whisper, "We consider it contraband around here."

Punk chuckled, and uncapping the bottle, he took his first sip. The tasty chilled liquid felt like heaven, cooling his tongue and cascading down his throat, revitalizing him. "Ahhh," he sighed, looking over at Mickie and pointing at the soda. "That is awesome," he told her before raising the bottle back to his lips.

Laughing, Mickie seized the chance to look at him properly. He was attractive – in a "Pearl Jam roadie" kind of way – with his long dark hair, lip ring and tattoos running up and down both arms. Though his baggy prison jumpsuit didn't show off too much of his body, the biceps protruding from each of his short sleeves indicated that he used to work out habitually in his previous life. And _boy_ did it pay off…

Punk looked at her again, and she quickly averted her gaze and pretended to be busy scribbling notes on her clipboard. However, and to her chagrin, she could sense that he had caught her checking him out. _Strike one, Dr. James_.

"You guys stocking up I see," Punk commented, pointing at the window, which showed a number of people walking into the infirmary with large boxes.

"Oh, yeah," said Mickie flippantly, "Medical supplies and equipment and stuff. The tournament's coming up and…" Suddenly, she stopped short, narrowing her eyes at him. "Wait a minute…you didn't _enter_, did you?"

Slightly unnerved by her accusing tone, Punk shook his head, putting his hands up. "What? No, no! I didn't enter Titan…whatever the hell it's called."

But she didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? Because I've read your report, remember…I _know_ what you do."

She stared hard at him with a look that was a few degrees away from being an outright glare, and Punk found himself needing her to believe him. "I swear, Doc," he said adamantly. "I'm not going to be fighting anybody, honest. Although…" he paused momentarily, unsure if he should be telling her this, "I did get an offer from the Warden."

This seemed to surprise her, because her eyebrows shot straight up. "The Warden? Really?"

"Yeah, less than a week after I got here. She found out that I used to wrestle and she thought I'd be good for ratings or something," he explained, rolling his eyes. "But I turned her down. I'm done with that part of my life." He caught her still-skeptic look and put up his hands. "I'm serious, Doc."

"I know, I know…" said Mickie, her countenance now thoughtful, "I just think it's interesting that you've caught Vickie's eye so quickly."

There was something about the way she said it that managed to make him both curious and slightly magnify his dislike for Vickie Guerrero. "Why?"

The prison doctor sighed as she pulled off her gloves. "Well, for one, she's someone that's very used to getting her own way. I would know; I report to her. And if she wants something done, or for herself, nine times out of ten she gets it. Not very many people around here can stand up to her, you know. So for you, an inmate, to turn her down…that's big. I don't think she's going to take it lightly either."

Punk shrugged nonchalantly, rubbing his bare arm. "Whatever. I mean, what more can she do to me, right? I'm already stuck here for life, right?"

Figuring that that was a rhetorical question, Mickie decided to ignore it. "Well you did the right thing, saying no…" She crossed her arms, giving him a serious look, "you have a panic disorder Phil. Joining this tournament will do nothing but further aggravate it."

"I understand. But, Doc…I wasn't born with this condition or anything," said Punk, wincing slightly as flashbacks of the toughest moments of his life swam before him. "It started when my trial began. Then as time went by…it got really bad."

Mickie nodded in understanding. She hadn't missed the pain that flashed across his face. "Thank you for telling me that. I promise I'll do everything I can to make you better. But you have to cooperate with me, Phil. That's the only way this thing will work. Do you understand?"

"Okay." Punk looked up, locking eyes with Mickie's. His demeanor was no different than many of the other inmates in Titan State, but there was just something about Phil Brooks that made the prison doctor want to delve in deeper. He was yet to mention his girlfriend, or what led to her unfortunate death. From where she was standing, there was clearly more to it than met the eye, much more than just taking a wrong turn that brought him here. Hopefully that would gradually come to light during the therapy sessions. Hopefully, he would fully open up.

Hopefully.

* * *

When Punk returned to his cell, Cena was lying in his bed. "'Sup?" Cena uttered his customary greeting, looking over his top bunk to glance at his cellmate. Punk rolled his eyes without replying, taking his usual stance pressing his head against the bars and observing people interacting. Though they were still speaking, things were, needless to say, a little tense between him and Cena since their talk at the commissary. They hung out, yes, but both knew it was only because they had been thrown together inside the same cell. Neither was completely comfortable with the other just yet. _Well_, Punk thought wryly, _we've got pretty much the rest of our lives_.

Unfortunately he never got the chance to say that to his girlfriend…

The bell rang, signaling it was yard time. The jail cells opened, and slowly the inmates began to file out. But suddenly from out of nowhere, the COs rushed down the hallways, scouring all three floors of Gen-Pop, popping in and out of jail cells. Immediately there was a huge commotion.

"Fuck is going on?" Punk asked, bewildered as inmates began rushing back into their cells, then back out and throwing things over the railing and down to the ground floor below.

"Shakedown," Cena replied, climbing down his bunk. "Got anything contraband? Better toss it now otherwise you'll spend the rest of the week in the SHU."

Punk looked at Cena over his shoulder. "Solitary Housing Unit," the former NFL player clarified. "In there, you see nothing but darkness and all them demons you been tryin' to get rid of. Trust me; you don't wanna go there."

Punk agreed silently. The last thing he wanted was his panic attacks going into overdrive. He began to return to his bed when he heard two inmates talking outside his cell.

"Oh snap!" one said, "Check out that kid. He's gonna fly!"

"Wait, ain't that Orton's kid?" asked the second voice.

Punk's ears perked up.

"No shit, it _is_." The first voice then laughed. "Guess he got tired of Orton's tiny dick, eh?"

Punk knew he was better off remaining inside his cell but he couldn't, not after what he'd just heard. He just had to see what they were talking about. He came out and looked around frantically, craning his neck above the crowded hallway. Then, he looked to his right and froze.

Evan Bourne had climbed over the railing, standing on the other side, his head bowed as he looked down. A white bed sheet had been converted into a rope, with one end tied to the rusty steel railing, and the other end tied around Bourne's neck.

Punk sprinted towards him, fighting his way through the press of bodies obstructing him. "Hey! HEY!" he screamed. "Evan! Don't!"

At first he wasn't sure if Evan had heard him until the young inmate finally turned his head. He stared at Punk, his eyes glassy and unfocused, watching stoically as Punk yelled things that he couldn't hear. Ignoring him, Evan looked back down.

And jumped.

"NOOOOOO!"

Everything from then on seemed to be in slow motion. Evan seemed to have been suspended in the air for an eternity before his body took the thirty-foot plunge below. The makeshift rope jerked, and Punk heard the sickening snap of cervical vertebrae. Punk reached over the steel barrier, pulling at the rope to try and bring Evan up but his efforts were in vain. The young inmate's body dangled below, swaying eerily from side to side, his head drooping limply onto his shoulder.

"Shit!" Punk spat out the word in a loud whisper, his face twisting in pain. He dropped to a squatting position, gripping the rails so hard that his knuckles turned white. His breathing threatened to let him down again, and he shut his eyes tightly, willing away the tightening sensation in his chest. God, this couldn't be happening. This could _not_ be happening…

First Maria, and now Evan...

"Punk…yo, Punk." Cena's voice was soft as he nudged his cellmate, trying to get him to stand up. "Come on man, let's go."

With Cena's help, he slowly got back to his feet. Cena's blue eyes were sad; he had seen what Evan had done. And he appeared to have been the only one; the chaos inside the prison was yet to dissipate.

Raking his hair back from his eyes and sighing heavily, Punk looked down and inadvertently locked eyes with a certain individual standing right in front of Evan's body. His stomach dropped, and not just because of who it was. It was the look the man's face; his handsome features were contorted with rage, his blue eyes accusing, burning a deep, scalding hole through his adversary. It was a look that spelled nothing but danger for the Fish.

Because Randy Orton's plaything was gone and he was holding CM Punk responsible.

* * *

_**A/N: Just in case you didn't know what it was, Gen-Pop means "general population", referring to all the incarcerated inmates. Something like that.**_

_**By the way, I've put up the links to my Tumblr and Twitter pages. Don't shy away, I appreciate the company. And I'll surely follow. Thanks a bunch. Please read and review! **_


	13. Cut Up and Cut Off

_**A/N: Yes, yes, I know. It's been a while. And I've compensated with a very intense chapter indeed. Confident words, yes, but read for yourself and I'll hope you agree with me.**_

_**I got 11 reviews for the last chapter! I think that's the most for any of my stories. Big, big thanks to **hsv81896, Hailey Egan, DaLiz13, DarkAngelElektra, Carly Fornia, nikki1335, MishaMuse, DashingMrsRhodes, Estheroxoxo, M. Cuevas **and **xHalosandwings **for making this happen. I truly, truly appreciate it! It warms my heart to know you're enjoying this story. Just to be ambitious, I'd love to get over 10 reviews for this chapter. Please make my dream come true by leaving a review after reading. Thank you and enjoy!**_

_**Song lyrics from "Words" by Skylar Grey.**_

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_**13. Cut Up and Cut Off**_

_It's so loud inside my head with words that I should have said…As I drown in my regrets I can't take back the words I never said…_

Yard time was the period when the cons gathered outside the prison grounds for some fresh air and relaxation. For many inmates it was a welcome two-hour reprieve from the dreary gray walls of their prison cells. But even in the warm sunshine and spacious expanse, CM Punk had never felt so suffocated in all his short time at Titan State.

The suicide of Evan Bourne just over two hours ago was no doubt the main topic of every conversation being held around the yard. Most interesting about it to some people was that the young inmate had taken his life with eighteen months left on his five-year sentence for grand larceny. But that piece of information, along with all the glances being thrown his way – some furtive, some open, all of them reproachful – only served to heap more guilt upon Punk's already burdened conscience.

Punk knew that he hadn't been the first person that Evan Bourne sought for help against Randy Orton. But like the others, Punk had turned him away, turned his back and buried his head in the sand in the hopes that maybe, just _maybe_…the problem would go away. And that was where Punk found fault with the decision he made. Such problems did not just vanish into thin air, not in an environment like Titan State, not when that problem was the heavily tattooed, six-foot-four inch, 240-pound super-bully of Titan State; a man that had no conscience, no soul. Sure, he looked incensed by Evan's death, but that was probably just another day at the office for Randy Orton. He would get over him and move on to his next plaything in a matter of days, someone he would also physically and emotionally torture and eventually drive to suicide. Punk's high sense of morality struggled to cope with this unabashed display of sadism.

He should never have backed down. He should have stood his ground and stood up for Evan, no matter what kind of shit he'd be put through by Orton. Would it have made a difference? He didn't know. But he should have at least _tried_, for Evan's sake. Evan wouldn't have given up so easily with someone at his side. Punk would never forget his face as he stood on that ledge; the resignation in his eyes, the conclusiveness in his demeanor. He'd accepted his fate long before he took that jump. Then when his body was brought down and the white sheet that aided in his demise was cut away from his neck...he looked more lost than ever, even in death. His face was burned into Punk's memory forever. He'd had a chance to save another human being and failed yet again. He had let the poor boy down.

Just like he had let his beloved Maria down.

Punk squeezed his eyes shut as his last-ever image of his girlfriend washed into his memory; her bright, beautiful face cold and ashen and smeared with her blood; her usually twinkling green eyes dim and lifeless and haunting. Just like Evan...

Gritting his teeth, Punk forced back the tears filling his eyes and ducked his head, running agitated hands through his long dark hair. Cena, MVP and Batista eyed their friend, worried and sympathetic for him but ultimately silent.

"Brooks!"

The nightstick smashed onto the bench before Punk was even able to register the voice. He looked up into the glinting greedy eyes of JBL. "Get up," the CO ordered. "Let's take a walk."

Raising an eyebrow, Punk exchanged questioning glances with his fellow inmates. None of them had a clue what this was about, but they all looked like they were summoning all of their willpower to keep from making any smart comment. The acrimony was obviously mutual as JBL sneered at them. "What, afraid you'll never see your boyfriend again?" he chuckled. "Relax; we're just gonna have a little talk about Evan Bourne."

Punk froze, his eyes narrowing rebelliously. "There's nothing to say, Boss."

"Oh, there's _a lot_ for you to say; you were the last person to see the kid alive. You better tag along or you'll spend this weekend in the SHU."

Rolling his eyes, Punk pushed himself off the bench and trudged behind JBL, ignoring everyone's curious looks as they passed. There was a small woodshed at a corner of the yard which was where JBL seemed to be heading to. The Chief of Guards was uncharacteristically quiet the entire way, and it was only when he reached the door of the shed and tapped his nightstick at the empty doorframe that he spoke again. "In here," he said with a smirk. "Thought you'd need some privacy while you told me the truth about what happened."

Wanting to get this over with, Punk complied and stepped into the shed. There was nothing to say about what happened. No matter how much Punk blamed himself for Evan's suicide, the fact of the matter was that physically, he had nothing to do with it. And that was exactly what he would tell JBL.

Punk had barely taken two steps when a hand suddenly came down over his mouth and he was lifted roughly off his feet. He was hauled across the shed and thrown on top of a barrel sitting in a corner. The back of Punk's head collided painfully with the hard, rough wooden wall. By the time he regained his bearings, he found his arms in Ted DiBiase's custody while Cody Rhodes had his legs. His right shoe had been taken off, leaving his foot exposed. Randy Orton stood over him, holding the biggest pair of gardening shears Punk had ever seen. And it was hovering right over his toes.

"Holy shit!" Punk exclaimed in horror, thrashing in his captors' grasps. "Get off me! Get the _fuck_ off me!"

"What did you say to him?" Orton demanded, his voice curt and cold and dangerous. He was seething, practically foaming at the mouth. The look in his eyes would have broken a weaker man. "The fuck?" Punk breathed, genuinely confused, "What are you-"

"_Don't lie to me!_" barked Orton, and Punk winced when the man's hands dropped even closer to his very vulnerable foot. "You think I didn't see him following you around when he thought I wasn't lookin', talkin' to you? Next thing I know, he's hangin' from a rope like a fucking piñata! You better open your mouth or things will get real ugly for you, Punk!"

"Not that you need any more help with that," Rhodes quipped, to no response from anyone. Frantically, Punk looked around for JBL. The CO had mysteriously disappeared from the scene, but the flash of dark blue that peeked around the shed door told him that he was outside, keeping watch for any intruders.

Buoyed by the fear he saw in Punk's eyes, Orton's icy eyes darkened ominously, watching him like a shark moving in for the kill. "What did you say to Evan?" His words were slower this time, each syllable pronounced with frightening efficiency.

"Damn it, I didn't say anything to him, okay?" said Punk. Right now he wasn't thinking about how much of a pussy he looked like in front of the people he hated so much. His limbs were at stake here. He could nurse his pride later. "Goddamn it! I didn't tell him anything!"

Orton fell silent, but kept his eyes on his adversary. One could almost see the wheels turning in his psychotic mind as he contemplated Punk's words. But in that same moment, just as Punk foolishly led himself to believe that a second's hesitation would guarantee his safety, Orton's thin lips curled up in an evil sneer, his eyes narrowed to bright blue slits. Turning his gaze to Cody, he jerked his head. The young accomplice picked up Punk's sock and stuffed it roughly into his mouth. Wearing a sadistic smile, Randy positioned the shears over Punk's toes. Then, looking him right in the eyes, he snipped the two biggest toes off.

It was as if a bomb had exploded in his brain. Punk screamed so loudly it nearly brought the shed down. He slid down to the ground, clutching his leg and crying out in agony as wave after wave of pain seared through his body.

JBL burst into the shed, alerted by the screams. The first thing he saw was the blood pouring from the fallen inmate's foot and his eyes grew wide, his meaty face slacking with shock. "Jesus Christ!" He rounded on Orton. "What the hell, Orton? You said you weren't gonna touch him!" he yelled.

But Orton hadn't taken his eyes off of the man writhing around in pain, his countenance bearing that familiar, morbid mask of malice and cruelty. "I changed my mind." His voice was soft and laced with sinister satisfaction. Handing the shears to the spluttering, wide-eyed Chief CO, he slipped out of the shed, taking his cohorts with him.

* * *

Mickie was at her desk when her door burst open, startling her. Two COs rushed in, carrying the inmate CM Punk. They dropped him on her treatment bed, and it was then that she saw the blood-soaked sock wrapped around his bare foot. "What the-" she breathed, jumping to her feet and rushing towards the bed. "What happened?" She turned around to ask the COs but they were already out the door.

Natalya rushed into the office armed with medical supplies for Mickie. "I saw them bring him in," she explained. "Do you need any help?"

Mickie shook her head distractedly, still stunned. "No, I'll be fine. Thanks Nat."

The blonde nurse seemed disappointed by her lack of participation, but she simply nodded and exited the office. Mickie turned back to Punk; he looked like a small child, huddled in the corner of the bed and shivering. Tears streamed silently down his face. Mickie could only imagine how much pain he was in. "Okay, let's take a look," she said softly.

But Punk jerked his leg away from her, grimacing from the effort. "It's okay. You're okay," she told him, her voice soft and assuring. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

Pursing his lips tightly, Punk forced himself to relax. Mickie quickly but gently unwrapped the reddened sock. His big and second toes were missing, and in their places were two short, bleeding stumps. "Oh my God."

For the first time, Punk saw the extent of the damage done to his foot, and he cried harder. He felt his chest tighten and his breathing become more and more shallow. Mickie immediately recognized the symptoms of a panic attack. She seized a brown paper bag nearby and held it to his mouth. "Here."

Punk grabbed the bag with both hands, clinging to it like a drowning man would to a lifejacket. He breathed heavily into the bag while Mickie rubbed slow circles on his back. Soon, he felt the tension in his body subside.

Mickie waited patiently for him to recover before she asked the one question that plagued her mind since arriving at her office. "Phil, what happened? Who did this to you?"

Stiffening visibly, Punk looked away from her. "It's nothing," he answered frostily.

Mickie's brown eyes widened with astonishment. "This isn't '_nothing_', Phil," she snapped, losing patience with his constant petulance. "I need you to tell me what happened!"

Punk whipped his head back around. The grim intensity of his green gaze sent chills through the Doctor's spine. He addressed her through gritted teeth. "Don't make me lie to you," he said.

Mickie gaped at him, alarmed. "Phil-"

"Just _clean it up_, okay?" he interjected curtly, glaring at her.

Biting her lip to keep from saying any more, Mickie set to work on Punk's bandaged foot, cleaning up as much of the blood as she could. She heard Punk inhale sharply every now and then while she dressed the wound. "No redness or excessive swelling, so no sign of infection," she assessed. "I'm going to keep it on antibiotics for the next ten days. You should be good."

When she was finished, she stood up and pulled off her surgical gloves, not taking her eyes off Punk. His handsome face remained stony as he stared outside the window, closing her off once again. After a long, heavy silence Mickie spoke up. "Brooks, you understand that by law I'm obligated to file a report if I feel there's been prisoner misconduct. There's no way this injury just 'happened'. This isn't a pedicure gone wrong. _Someone_ deliberately cut your toes off."

Punk placed his injured leg on top of his other thigh, inspecting the clean bandages that swathed his foot. "If you file the report, things could get a lot worse for me."

Mickie nearly laughed at the irony of his words. "And they're _not _already?"

Despite everything, Punk found himself smiling. She was quite feisty, wasn't she? "I've made some enemies," he admitted quietly, looking up, and Mickie saw the conflicting emotions raging for dominance. Their eyes had met for only a second but it was more than enough time. What she saw was so raw, so intricate that she felt that she'd intruded on something intimate or private. But this was a breakthrough. That was the important thing.

"You scared?" she asked. When she received no answer from him she raised an eyebrow. "Macho. Okay."

That received a smile from Punk. Another breakthrough. "So here's what _I_ think," she went on, crossing her arms over her chest. "I think you _are_ scared, and I think you wouldn't be human if you weren't scared in a place like this."

Shaking his head, Punk swung his legs over the bed and gingerly set them on the ground, then grunted in pain as he tried to stand on his own. Mickie moved to help him but he waved her away. "I appreciate your concern, Doc. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't get involved in my business. I'll handle this myself."

Putting flip-flops on, he brushed past Mickie and hobbled towards the door. "How?" the Doctor blurted out, mentally kicking herself for once again talking before thinking.

Punk stopped, with one hand resting on the door knob, but didn't glance back. "That's for me to worry about." Pulling the door open, he stepped out of Dr. James' office, the door slamming resolutely shut behind him.

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_**Please review! **_


	14. The Warning

_**A/N: Happy New Year! So sorry for the long delay in updating! I've had so much on my plate lately, with work and the other million responsibilities I've got nowadays. **_

_**Writing this chapter was so harrrrd! You have this scenario played out in your head but putting it on paper is a killer. I really hope you like it either way.**_

_**Thanks so much to **DarkAngelElektra, Quinny'sJellyBean, MishaMuse, xHalosandwings, nikki1335, DashingMrsRhodes, hsv81896, Humpaz2210, shorty-2721, Hailey Egan Cena, BrandiAZ **and **the anonymous reviewer. **I'm overwhelmed by the very positive response to this story. Please keep 'em coming, they rock!**_

_**By the way, I changed the name of Melina's firm. It's Helmsley & Michaels. I bet you recognize those names. ;)**_

_**Here's chapter 14. Enjoy!**_

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_**Chapter 14: The Warning**_

If this was some kind of horrible nightmare, Melina wanted to wake up. Like, right now.

For the first time in a very long time, she was confused, frightened even. She didn't understand how her morning could just go from bad to worse in the blink of an eye. After the disaster with Tiffany she had returned home wondering how she had let that one chance get away, wondering how she was going to pick up the pieces of this case, if there were any pieces left at all. Worse, it wasn't like she could track Tiffany down. She didn't know where she lived. Melina was more than certain that she was never going to see the young woman again.

What she didn't realize was that that very thought would come back to haunt her.

John wasn't home when she got back, so when she heard the knock on the door, she went to answer it, assuming it was him. Instead, she found two policemen standing at her doorway with somber expressions on their faces.

"_Melina Perez?"_

_She eyed them skeptically. "May I help you?"_

"_Could you come with us, Miss? We're taking you in for questioning regarding the murder of Tiffany Terrell…"_

Now here she was, inside the Chicago PD interrogation room, still stunned by what the officers' words. Melina looked around the dark, gray space, and instantly felt nauseous. She'd been inside one of these rooms before, but she had sat on the safer and sounder side of the table, the side that guaranteed she would walk out after defending a client from the probing questions from the cops. Not sitting here, contemplating the true value of freedom as she was about to be questioned about a murder she knew nothing about.

Tiffany was dead. Murdered. Melina almost couldn't believe it.

The sound of the door snapping open jerked the young lawyer out of her thoughts. Her head jerked upwards, frowning when Michael Cole, the cop that had been rude to her the last time she'd been at the Station, walked into the room, smiling like a butcher about to commence his daily routine. He sat down across from her, glaring at Melina maliciously. Evidently there was no love lost between them from their last conversation. "So, Miss Perez…" he began. "Do you want to give me the exact story of what happened this morning?"

She glared at Officer Cole. She was yet to meet a bigger moron than this guy. "I'd be more comfortable if I spoke with your Superior, Officer."

Cole stared at her, baffled. No one had ever asked for the Lieutenant to personally interrogate them. "Are you sure that's a smart idea? I mean, I'm giving you a lifeline here."

Melina blinked. "Lifeline? I don't think you're competent enough to even ask me the right questions."

Chuckling snidely, Cole said, "You're not going to go far in here if you keep up the snotty attitude, lady."

"I'm only snotty to you because I don't _like _you," she replied bluntly, pretending to check her fingernails. "Now get me your Superior if you want me to be cooperative. Otherwise I'll be more than happy to invoke my right to remain silent for as long as you keep me here."

Both held each other's hard gaze, and moments of resentful silence passed before Cole finally relented, shoving out of his chair and stalking out of the room. Once he left, Melina rolled her eyes. Idiot.

Minutes later Cole returned, and Melina's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the man that followed him close behind. She'd seen him many times before during the course of the investigation, but up close was a different story. He had to be the tallest man she had ever seen. Still, he carried himself well for someone so massive. His dark hair, long and smattered with gray at the temples, was pulled back in a ponytail. His face, though slightly wrinkled, hinted that this was once a strikingly handsome man. He still was.

Not that she would say it out loud or anything.

Taking Cole's seat, he leaned his huge body back, tilting his head to the side as he looked at Melina. His hard green eyes would have intimidated anybody else. Not Melina.

"My name is Lieutenant Mark Callaway," he began, and the lawyer immediately noted a bit of a Southern accent. He sent her what he probably thought was a genuine smile, but it seemed that evoking that kind of emotion out of him caused him a considerable amount of discomfort. "I see you've already met my colleague, Officer Michael Cole. I'll take it from here, Cole."

"Sure, Chief." Cole glared at Melina before walking out, and she couldn't help the smirk that touched her lips. If anything, she would get a kick out of annoying this guy. He made it way too easy for her. As for Callaway however, she could tell right away that there was no bullshitting with this one. That suited her fine. She was in no mood to play games either.

"I apologize that we brought you here so abruptly, Miss Perez," Callaway said. "Can I call you Melina?"

Melina merely shrugged in response. She just wanted out of here.

"Okay. We just want to ask a few questions, Melina. The quicker you co-operate with us, the quicker this will be over with. So, first things first; could you tell me where you were at 8 a.m. this morning?"

Taking a deep breath, Melina started from the beginning, from seeing the news of Drew McIntyre's death to Tiffany's phone call and their agreement to meet at _Del Rio's, _all the way to Tiffany's rather abrupt cancellation. She had called her colleague, John Morrison, on her way back to the apartment they shared, and had stayed there alone for a few hours before the police showed up and broke the news to her. She gave all the timelines of each of the events, and both Morrison and their next-door neighbor, Ron Killings, were being questioned as well to prove her alibi.

Callaway listened quietly as the young lawyer recounted her story. When she was finished, he asked, "Your partner, John Morrison, didn't accompany you to see Tiffany?"

Melina shook her head. "No. She insisted that I came alone."

"Why do you think she did that?"

"I don't know; maybe she felt she'd be more comfortable talking to a woman."

"Did she say that to you?"

"No," Melina answered, hoping she didn't sound as frazzled as she felt. "She sounded scared for her life and I don't blame her. Her boyfriend just died."

"And she told you he was murdered?"

"Yes."

"She was certain of this?" Callaway inquired.

"She sounded confident, yes."

Callaway didn't speak for a few moments as he tapped his finger on a Manila file in front of him. It seemed like harmless, idle movement, but Melina highly doubted that the Lieutenant did anything without purpose. "Tiffany's boyfriend, Drew McIntyre; the coroner released his toxicology reports yesterday," he told her. "Quite an amount of narcotics was found in his system, the right amount to trigger a fatal overdose. You say Miss Terrell claimed it was murder; did she show you any proof?"

"No. She bailed as soon as I walked into the diner. On the phone, she told me there were people watching her, that she was risking her life by calling me."

"And after she left the diner, you never saw her again?"

"No, Lieutenant."

Callaway nodded at this. "Tiffany was found drowned in her bathtub by her next-door neighbor at about 9am this morning. Well, it _looked_ like a drowning, but the coroner determined that she was held down forcibly under water. You didn't follow her to her apartment?"

Melina was overwhelmed by this fresh wave of news, but she forced herself not to show it. She shut her eyes for a second and then opened them again. "I didn't. I admit chasing after her. I didn't understand why she just took off like that. But I tripped and fell. By the time I got back to my feet she was gone. Downtown is a busy area in the morning."

"And you have no idea where she went."

"No," she replied as patiently as possible, "I don't know anything other than what she told me over the phone."

Nodding his head, Callaway flipped through the Manila file. "McIntyre was one of your witnesses in the Phil Brooks murder trial, am I right?"

"Yes. He was our key witness."

"But he never showed up in court to testify, did he?"

"No, Lieutenant. Tiffany said over the phone that she had the information Drew was supposed to give us."

"And did you get this information?"

"I never got the chance, Lieutenant. You should have seen the look on her face when I saw her at the diner. She saw someone behind me and she took off like a bat out of hell!"

"And what about you?" Callaway crossed his arms, fixing his scrutinizing gaze upon the young attorney. "Did you see whoever it was that scared her away?"

"No," Melina admitted through clenched teeth. "The diner was nearly empty; there was no one in my line of sight."

"So we're back to where we started. It leaves just you. You're the only person any of our witnesses saw with Tiffany."

"I wasn't _with_ her," Melina contended. Why did she feel like she was repeating herself? "That implies that we were in close contact and actually had a conversation. She didn't even give me the chance to talk to her."

"And that must have frustrated the hell outta you," Callaway goaded. "She dragged you all the way downtown only to balk and run away. She dangled a carrot, a big opportunity for you to finally break your case, and then snatched it away from you. That must have really, _really_ ticked you off." Leaning forwards and placing his hands on the table, he looked hard at Melina. "So you follow her home, maybe a few angry words are exchanged between you two ladies, and in the heat of the moment, something goes wrong."

Melina stared back at him, finally understanding why the interrogation had taken this sour turn. She clenched her fists underneath the table, working to curb her anger. "I hope you're not trying to implicate me, Lieutenant." She uttered the words slowly and clearly. "You will be making a huge mistake. I went home and was working on my case when your men showed up at my doorstep and arrested me. You said she drowned in her bathtub; I don't even _know _where she lives. Three people are dead now. The killer is still out there, and has been for nearly a year. I'm quite certain you've got more important things to worry about than lil' old me."

For a long moment no one spoke as they glared at each other. The awkward silence was only broken when Cole walked back into the room. "Mathews just spoke with her neighbor and Stanford was with her colleague John Morrison. Her alibi checks out," he informed his Superior rather grudgingly.

Callaway nodded his head slowly. "I strongly suggest you don't leave Chicago anytime soon, Melina. Something tells me we'll be seeing each other again soon."

Getting to her feet, Melina held the older man's gaze. "I don't plan on going anywhere, Lieutenant. I have a case I'm working on, and unlike _some_ people-" she shot Cole a withering glance, "-I'm a professional and I take my job very seriously."

She let herself be escorted out of the room, hoping they couldn't see that she was trembling. Her mind was running at a mile a minute.

First Maria, then Drew, and now Tiffany. All murdered, all in highly suspicious circumstances. There was a pattern here, a connection. But what was it?

John was at the waiting area looking worried. On seeing her, he jumped to his feet. "Mel!" He rushed towards her and gently grabbed her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she answered. "These nut jobs don't know what they're doing."

John scoffed. "I figured that out when they tried to make me implicate you in Tiffany's murder. So what did they say?" he asked as both of them made their way out of the Station and down the street, heading back to their home. It had been a long, not-so-pleasant day.

"I shouldn't leave town."

"So you really _are_ a suspect?" John asked, stunned. "Those guys _are_ nut jobs. Oh, before I forget, Hunter and Shawn want to see us both, first thing tomorrow morning."

She would have been lying if she said she hadn't expected to hear that. "I take it they're not too pleased with this turn of events?" she asked.

"Don't worry about it," John assured her. "They'll calm down once we explain everything."

"Either that or they'll throw us out of the case. I'm sorry, John, for getting you into this mess."

John gave her a puzzled look. "What for? We're in this together, remember? Never forget that." He pulled her into a small hug, and Melina smiled gratefully at him for being such a rock. But things quickly grew serious again as a chilling thought flitted through her mind. "John, I think we've got bigger problems," she said with a hint of worry in her voice. "Tiffany was in hiding all this while, right? The moment she came out, she was murdered. I think the killer has been following her all this time. And now he could be following _us_ too. They'll know we were trying to talk to her-"

Suddenly her cell phone rang, startling her. Distractedly, she flipped it open and pressed it to her ear. "Hello?"

"_Hello, Melina._"

Melina's first thought was that this was nothing more than another stupid prank call; she had been subject to quite a number of those ever since the Phil Brooks murder case began. But the insistence with which her internal alarm bells rang made it impossible for her to ignore this particular one. "Who is this?" she demanded.

"_That's the problem, Melina Perez. You ask way too many questions. Now I have one for you. Is Phil Brooks really worth it?_"

Without realizing she was doing so, Melina slowly slid out of John's embrace. She wanted so badly to hang up, but of the caller's voice possessed a magnetic tone to it, compelling her to listen to what he had to say. This was definitely not a prank caller. Her eyes darted meaningfully towards John, who had stopped beside her, watching her intently. He silently motioned for her to hit the speaker button, and then mouthed for her to keep talking. "What are you talking about?" she said into the phone, impressed by how steady her voice was.

"_I have a bit of friendly advice for you. Pull out of the case. The further you pursue this, the more blood you're going to get on your hands. If you thought it ended with the drug-dealing couple, think again. And your precious Police friends won't be able to help you._"

"Oh my God," she breathed. Acting on instinct, she spun round, her eyes darting around, trying to see if she could catch the caller hiding somewhere. But the streets were littered with people – it could have been anybody from anywhere. Feeling helpless, Melina felt her insides swell with apprehension; it was all she could do not to lose her composure. John gently squeezed her shoulder, but it did nothing to quell her anxiety.

"_Pull out of the Phil Brooks case," _the voice warned._ "I'm telling you nicely now. Next time, I won't be so civil._"

And the line went dead.

* * *

_**A/N: So that's my attempt at a police interrogation. I guess watching all those CSI Miami and NY episodes paid off, haha. Please review. **_


	15. Enter the Nature Boy

_**A/N: Apologies for the long wait. I literally battled with this chapter for weeks. And if it seems a bit meh, I'm sorry. I really just wanted to get it out of the way. I've spent wayyyy too much time on it. Luckily chapter 16 is halfway done so I should be updating soon. **_

_**Thanks so much to **DarkAngelElektra, MishaMuse, PunksPrincess84, xHalosandwings, hannaX, nikki1335, Rachel,VanityMayhem** and **AJLeeObessed** for the awesome reviews. Keep 'em coming!**_

_**Let me know what you think of 15, readers!**_

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_**Chapter 15: Enter the Nature Boy**_

Vickie Guerrero was not expecting anyone in her office for another hour, so she was taken by surprise when the door burst open and CM Punk hobbled into the room, his face like thunder. An out-of-breath Layfield stumbled in after him. "I'm real sorry ma'am, but he-"

"It's fine, John," Vickie assured him. Leaning back in her chair, she fixed her gaze on the long-haired inmate. "So, Mr. Brooks…to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" she asked. Her tone could have easily been passed off as friendly, but Punk knew better. Still, he didn't care. He was only here for one thing and one thing only.

"I want in."

Vickie's expression remained passive. "What do you mean?"

"You know _exactly_ what I mean," said Punk. "I want to participate in the tournament."

With a slight lift of her eyebrow, Vickie marveled at the audacity of this inmate. Punk did not flinch as he met her unwavering gaze. Finally she turned away, focusing on the pile of paperwork on her desk. "I'm sorry Brooks. You're too late."

"_What_?"

"You can't enter the tournament. It starts in four days and production is already underway for the premiere. My hands are tied. There's nothing I can do."

"There _is _something you can do, you just don't want to do it," Punk countered.

"You think so?" A knowing smile crept across the petite woman's face. She was clearly enjoying this. "Well…frankly, I've never been an advocate of second chances."

"You just enjoy fucking with people, don't you?" Punk snapped, "You – ow! What the-"

Layfield had socked him upside the head with his nightstick. Without hesitation the inmate shot to his feet. "You touch me again and I swear to God you'll regret it!"

"Like to see you try, boy," JBL sneered.

Though they were shackled behind his back, Punk ached to smash his fists into the Chief CO's face. "Right. Kick my ass while I'm in handcuffs and defenseless. You love the unfair advantage, don't you? How else do you explain letting the merry band of psycho-mutts attack me with gardening shears?"

Angered, Layfield advanced, teeth bared and nostrils flaring. "Are you accusing me of something, boy? Who do you think ya talkin' to? I am the Chief of Correctional Officers!"

"If you think that's going to stop me from shoving your teeth down your throat, you got another thing coming-"

"Enough, both of you!" Vickie ordered. Both men fell silent at once. "Sit down Brooks. Now."

Working hard to rein in his anger, Punk petulantly did as he was told, but not before shooting Layfield a vengeful look.

"I did hear about your injury." Vickie gestured at the bandaged stump around his foot, and then added with zero sympathy in her voice, "That had to hurt."

"Thanks," Punk replied dryly, "I bet you also know who did it."

"What makes you think that?" Vickie asked, a little too innocently. "What I want to know is how you expect to compete in Titan Demolition in this condition."

Punk shrugged. "All the better for Orton to kill me off with, right? You'd like that, wouldn't you, Warden? Well, that's not gonna happen."

"Right. Orton." Vickie chuckled and shook her head. "You sure know how to pick your enemies, Brooks."

The inmate rolled his eyes at her attempt at stalling. "I try."

"You still haven't given a reason to put you into this tournament at the last minute. Why would I do that for _you_?"

Running his tongue over his lip ring, Punk answered, "Do you remember, Warden, what you said about a week ago? Remember when you told me you needed a man that would move the people watching at home? Inspire them, you said. In the world we live in, that's not easy to come by. I have a good story that the fans will love. I could very well become a legend." His eyes narrowed tauntingly at the petite woman. "Did you mean all of that, or were you just talking out of your a-…backside?"

Vickie's smile merely widened. "And yet, you told me I had the wrong guy."

Punk should have expected this. He had turned her down the first time; rejected her as if she was a desperate nobody. There was no way she would make it easy for him now. Judging from the almost groupie-like wonder in her tone at the mention of that psychopath, Punk knew where the Warden's allegiances lay. Still, it wasn't going to stop him from getting what he wanted. "Come on, Warden," Punk began. "You're Titan State's head honcho, the shot-caller. I'm sure you can talk to a few people; pull a couple of strings…"

Again, it took a while for the Warden to respond. Punk knew he should never have a chance in hell with his demands, but he could tell that Vickie Guerrero wouldn't have liked being made to look like a fool, not in front of her subordinates and _especially not_ by wretched convict scum. She was going to put him in the tournament just to one-up him, then sit back and have the satisfaction of watching him die, hopefully, a slow painful death.

He was _counting _on it.

The Warden did not take her eyes off CM Punk as she left her seat, circling her large oak table and leaning against the edge, right in front of him. He was vaguely reminded of a cougar toying with its prey before it pounced.

Reminded, not surprisingly, of Orton.

Vickie tilted her head to the side. "Fine. I'll put you in Titan Demolition. But let's get one thing straight, Brooks." She clutched both arms of his chair and leaned so close to him, their noses almost touched. "If you ever barge into my office like that again, I'll have you locked up in SHU for the rest of your sentence." Her voice was low, cold and dangerous. "That's a promise."

A stare-down ensued between Warden and inmate. Punk's features twisted slowly, deliberately into a snarl. "Get ready for the best show you'll ever see, Warden," he said. "I _will_ get out of this hell-hole, and by the time this tournament is over, Orton will be dead. _That_ is a promise."

* * *

The moment Punk returned to his cell, Cena shot to his feet. "Where the hell you been? I been in here thinking Orton cut up the rest of you this time."

Punk snorted as he limped over to his bed. "He wishes. Let's see how slick he'll be when we get to Titan Demolition."

"Yeah, I'da loved to see-" He paused suddenly, staring open-mouthed at his cellmate. "Wait a minute. You've entered TD?" When Punk shrugged, Cena's blue eyes went wider. "Shiii. Thought you didn't want none of that."

"Well, I'm entitled to change my mind. I'm just coming from Warden Guerrero's office."

Cena tilted his head, regarding Punk with wonder. "Wow, she must like you or somethin', Fish. That's the what, second, third time you're stepping on her toes and she ain't punished you yet."

The Straight Edge inmate shrugged again. "Yeah well, I'm slick like that."

"Oh, I cannot wait for yard time so we can tell the guys."

And that was exactly what Cena did. Batista and MVP had the exact reactions as the former NFL player. Punk watched with a mix of amusement and irritation as they high-fived each other. "Celebrating my impending demise?"

Shaking his head, Batista wagged his finger at his fellow inmate. There was an uncharacteristic twinkle in his eye that made Punk curious. What was running through the big man's head? "You're not gonna die and I'll tell you why. Come on." Batista gestured for Punk to follow him. "There's someone you should meet."

"And where the heck are you going?" Montel asked, following the other three men.

Batista was already crossing the yard. "We're going to see Ric."

"Ric?" MVP stopped abruptly, placing his hands on his hips. "As in _Flair_? You gotta be shittin' me, Dave!"

Punk had heard of the name. He was in the sixth year of a 55-year sentence for his participation in a multi-billion dollar embezzlement scandal. It was basically a life sentence, but he had gotten off quite easy, considering the old man had embezzled funds from his company for nearly three decades. He was squealed on by one of his business partners, who ran off with Ric's wife and a few million of his misappropriated dollars. "And why are we seeing this guy?" Punk asked Batista.

"Because you're gonna need all the help you can get. Ain't much time left before the tournament starts, and Ric is the best," the big man explained.

"Yeah, best at stealing all my goddamn clients," Montel grumbled. Cena rolled his eyes. "I told you this before, dude. Just drop your interest rates a little."

Tuning out MVP and Cena's bickering, Punk looked around. Other than a couple of bench presses scattered around the yard, there was nothing suitable enough to help prepare for anything of Titan Demolition's caliber.

The four of them headed towards the bleacher that belonged to the business tycoons. A group of them were playing what looked like a poker game. Batista rounded the bench and came to a stop beside the oldest man with a full head of white hair. The man glanced up, and Punk thought he looked much older than the last time he was on TV.

"Look who we have here; Batista, Cena, and the most inept loan shark on the planet," Flair smirked, and MVP had to be restrained by Cena. "The hell do you want?"

"I want to talk to you. Alone," Batista said, returning the scowl the other poker players sent his way. "It's important," he added. "And trust me when I say it'll be worth your while."

The poker players turned questioningly to Flair. After some hesitation, the old man nodded his head to the side, motioning for them to leave. Once the bench had cleared, he glared at Batista. "First of all, trust don't mean nothin' within these four walls. Second, you'd better have a good reason for interrupting my poker game otherwise I have no problem getting those guys back this way."

"Ric, meet CM Punk," said Batista, gesturing towards the Straight Edge inmate. "Punk, this is Ric Flair."

The old man looked Punk up and down. "So you're the Fish that busted Orton's nose." His tone was indifferent as he returned his attention to his cards.

"Punk is entering Titan Demolition, Ric," said Batista. "We were hoping we could obtain your services."

Flair raised an eyebrow, and Punk had never seen such a simple gesture look more threatening. "_Really?_"

"For the usual fee, of course," the former bouncer added.

"That isn't even the issue," said Flair. "First of all, didn't he come in here like yesterday or something? It's a little late to be talking about training, let alone entering the competition. Second, I don't train anymore. This year I'm just a spectator like everybody else. "

"He's been here for a month. And I know you're itching to get your hands dirty again, Ric. You've turned everyone else away 'cause you haven't found a new guy, the _right_ guy. Well, here he is." He patted the Straight Edge inmate's back for emphasis. "Frankly, he's the only one I see beating Orton at TD, and if anyone can help him do it, it's you."

Punk couldn't help but be impressed at how confident Dave Batista was. He was not a man of many words, but when he spoke you could feel the authority and conviction behind those words. You just _had _to listen. He would have made an excellent publicist.

"I like you Dave. You know we'll always be cool, but you know I don't do that no more," said Flair. "Besides, what's so special about him that should make me want to invest in him?" he added.

"The way you 'invested' in that company of yours and it went to shit?" Punk taunted. He felt bad for unraveling Batista's hard work, but the old fool was clearly playing hard to get and it was pissing him off.

Flair lowered his head, chuckling softly. Cena and Batista stared at Punk in shock, while MVP patted him approvingly on the shoulder. "So he's got a mouth on 'em," the old man observed, "The kind that gets you in all sorts of trouble in here. But it already has, hasn't it…girlfriend killer?"

And with his fingers, Flair mimicked a pair of scissors, snipping tauntingly through the air.

Punk bit back the rage that bubbled up inside him. He had given in to his anger once before within these walls, and two of his toes were missing as a result.

"TD isn't a game, Fish," Flair continued. "It's all about endurance and skill and smarts. There are no time limits and no rules. The match doesn't stop until one of you is dead. The first round doesn't end until the players are down to thirty-two. That means you gotta keep sixty-eight psychos off your ass and that smart mouth ain't gonna help your odds."

On hearing this, Punk realized that he knew next to nothing about the logistics of Titan Demolition. He hadn't bothered simply because he was sure he would have nothing to do with the tournament.

"See? Good advice already," Cena pointed out with a grin. "So are you in, old man?"

Pulling out a cigar, Flair made a lazy waving motion with his hand. One of his card-playing cronies dutifully hurried over and lit the cigar for him. Punk saw Montel roll his eyes. Flair took a long puff before speaking again. "I got my terms," he said, "The stakes in this tournament have gone up and so have my rates. I highly doubt you can afford what I'm asking for."

"Let's hear it," Punk said impatiently.

"Each match you win gets a certain amount of cash," Flair explained. "A hundred bucks if you make the thirty-two. The money doubles with each win, and the final gets you a hundred grand. I get a thirty percent cut of each take."

This was a joke, right? "No deal. You get fifteen percent. Take it or I walk away and we'll pretend we never had this discussion."

"Are you bargaining with me, Fish? You came to me for help, didn't you?"

"No," Punk pointed at Batista, "_He_ brought me here. Personally _I_ don't know how you'll get me to survive this damn tournament but if Dave's convinced you can, then I'm ready to listen. Fifteen or bust."

Flair leaned back, crossing his arms as he thought the offer through. "Twenty-five," he offered grudgingly.

"Twenty."

"Fine." Puffing on his cigar again, Flair fixed Punk with a questioning, almost challenging stare. "One more thing; I wanna know if you're going in there to win or you're in it to play hero. I saw the look on your face when that Bourne kid jumped off that ledge. If you're in this for revenge, we better call this off now because it's only gonna get you killed. It's weighing you down. Your sole focus should be on getting out of this joint. You dump all that baggage right here, right now, and you got yourself a deal."

Allowing a half-smile to cross his features, Punk extended his hand to the older man. "I feel lighter already."

"Good." Flair took the younger man's hand and shook it firmly, heralding a new – albeit unlikely – alliance. "Sit tight, kid. I'm not just going to help you win this tournament; I'm going to make you a star."

* * *

_**A/N: Hope that went well. Please review. **_


	16. Faith

_**Hi guys. So sorry for not updating sooner. The inspiration and ideas have just not been coming lately. This chapter was a bit of a struggle but I hope it looks good anyway.**_

_**Thank you to**__ baybie, PunksPrincess84, DarkAngelElektra, nikki1335, Guest, VanityMayhem __**and**__ ConchaaRex __**for the awesome reviews. I love you guys!**_

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_**16. Faith**_

Phil Brooks was home.

He stood outside his house, staring up at the edifice with a mix of awe, excitement and confusion. He still couldn't believe he had been released from Titan State Penitentiary. If this was a dream, he did not want to wake up.

He looked around. The front garden was perfect, his driveway was intact, the S-shaped flagstone pathway still led up to his front door. He took one tentative step, certain that it would dissolve and disappear underneath his foot. It didn't, and he took another step, and another. When he reached the door, he could barely contain his joy. Maybe the past nine months had never happened. Maybe his time at Titan State had been nothing more than a horrible, much-too-vivid nightmare. He pushed open the door and went inside.

Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary, but he still felt the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. As he walked around he could hear Blondie's "Maria" playing somewhere in the background. The cheery, up-tempo tune clashed unattractively with the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He turned to the kitchen. The smell of blood invaded his senses. There was no body sitting there and though there was not a drop in sight, the scent of blood grew ever stronger.

"_Help me, Phil…"_

The voice cut into his agitated thoughts. He spun around and his blood ran cold.

Maria stumbled towards him, drenched from head to toe in blood, looking eerily like Carrie from the Stephen King book. She came closer, and that was when Phil saw the knife in her neck, the handle protruding from one end and the blade sticking out from the other. Her green eyes, wide yet bone-chillingly blank, stared right through him.

"_Help me Phil…"_ Her voice was calm, too calm, yet vacant. Debbie Harry's wails became louder, more shrill, reaching a terrifying crescendo that was close to rendering him permanently deaf. Phil stumbled backwards but lost his footing. Maria was on top of him in a flash. She pulled the knife out of her neck and raised it high above her head, about to plunge into his chest. Phil screamed.

"_Help me, Phil…"_

Punk sat bolt upright, eyes wide, gasping for air. His panicked gaze flew down to his body, expecting to see the knife embedded in his chest. He was sweating profusely. His heart was racing much too fast. The walls were closing in on him, and the air in his lungs seemed to have disappeared. Punk quickly drew his knees up to his chest and tucked his head in between them, trying to breathe evenly, to calm himself down with all the mental strength he could conjure up. Soon the anxiety began to fade, as well as the notes of that terrible song that still lingered in his senses.

Yet another nightmare. Yet another panic attack.

When he was calmer, Punk climbed out of bed and glanced at the figure on the bunk above him. Cena was sound asleep; he hadn't heard a thing. Punk wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. He could never rest, never feel at peace until he avenged Maria. And he couldn't do that unless he got out of this hellhole prison.

_And I will_, he vowed, his hands clenching into fists. He was very much aware that there was no turning back now.

Punk went back to bed, but his eyes did not close again.

* * *

For the first time ever, Punk found himself afraid to see Dr. James. She was going to kill him herself when she found out about his entry into Titan Demolition. He had thought it would be better off telling her after she finished redressing his toe wounds, so why he had blurted it out midway through her work was completely beyond him.

Mickie's features were full of disbelief. "You did _what_?"

Punk sighed. "You heard me, Doc. I entered yesterday. I took the Warden's offer."

"I thought I told you to stay away from Titan Demolition. More importantly, _you_ told me you weren't interested in entering."

"I changed my mind."

"No," Mickie said sharply, "no, you do not change your mind about something like this, not on Doctors' orders. You're on medication-"

"I'm done with the medicine. I don't want them."

Mickie raised an eyebrow. "Really? Look, Brooks, I understand your Straight Edge philosophy and all, but these drugs make your body heal faster the right way. They're not recreational-"

"I don't care," Punk said, crossing his arms defiantly. "I made a mistake ever taking them in the first fucking place. I always feel like shit afterwards. They make me numb. I don't want to be numb anymore."

"You're still having panic attacks, aren't you?" She knew he had been lying about getting better, and his expression gave him away. "Doc-"

"The bags under your eyes are twice as heavy as the average insomniac's," Mickie pointed out bluntly. "You're not sleeping. At all. Because when you do you have nightmares and you wake up with symptoms of an anxiety attack. Answer me, and answer me honestly."

He realized there was no point lying. "Yes, I still have them. Nightmares, panic attacks, the works. But I'm done with your drugs," he reiterated firmly. "I took those pills because I couldn't reconcile who I was in the real world with who I am here in prison. I've been disillusioned for a very, very long time, Doc. But not anymore. I'm Straight Edge and I'll always be Straight Edge. As for me entering the Tournament; you don't approve? Too bad. But it's something I need to do. I don't expect you to understand."

Mickie's shoulders sagged in disbelief. This man was exasperating. "You're right; all I understand is that you're going get yourself killed!"

"Nice to know how much faith you have in me," Punk said sarcastically.

"This isn't about faith, Phil!" She stopped, realizing her voice had gone a few decibels too high, and took a deep breath to compose herself. "Look…this isn't even about your anxiety anymore. Do you understand what happens in this tournament? If you lose, if you make _one_ mistake, you _die_. But it seems you've already made up mind so I'll leave it alone." She returned her attention to his wound, and Punk could feel the fury radiating off her. Dr. James was angry, very angry, and he felt terrible.

"I was set up, Mickie," he started before he could stop himself. "I came home that day and found her in the kitchen, dead in a pool of her own blood. I shouldn't be in prison because I didn't do anything wrong. Our relationship was on shaky ground for a long time but I would _never _havehurt her like that. I still don't know who would want to hurt her like that. Now someone's thrown me a lifeline and given me an opportunity to fight for my freedom and get to the bottom of what happened." He took a deep, shaky breath, running a hand over his long hair. "I'm sorry but I'm going to take it. I'm going to fight and I won't stop fighting until I'm out of this place and I find out who killed Maria and put me in here. I deserve that much, don't I?"

Part of Mickie's training as a doctor was to be able to absorb all sorts of information in all kinds of situations, but now she found herself reeling. Not just from the fact that he'd blindly agreed to walk into what was certain death or that for the first time he had addressed her by her first name, but that he was finally speaking up about what happened with his girlfriend. And for once, she didn't have any professional advice to give.

"Why do you care so much?" Punk asked her out of the blue, his voice somewhat soft as he searched the Doctor's face for an answer. "I'm just a convicted felon, right? We're not supposed to matter."

Still slightly overwhelmed, Mickie was unsure of how to respond to this. His intense green gaze wasn't helping; he seemed to have this ability to look right into her soul, the type that could penetrate right through and discover her deepest, darkest secrets. She was afraid that if she did hold his gaze long enough, if he looked closely enough, he would. It was incredible yet intimidating. "You're my patient, I'm supposed to care," she answered dully, pulling off her gloves and adjusting her white coat. "We're done here, Brooks. Good luck with the tournament."

He watched her retreating back, unable to explain the feeling of disappointment swirling inside him. "So that's it?"

"Yes, that's it." She turned to write something down on her charts. Moments later, she felt something touch her free hand and she froze. The heat that rippled through her body, the way her stomach did flip-flops at the contact immediately told her what it was. But surely it had to be her imagination. There was no way…he couldn't be _that _bold…

She dared to look, and sure enough, her hand was ensconced in Punk's bigger one. Swallowing hard, she gazed up at the inmate, and his green eyes held her brown ones captive.

"Thank you for helping me, Mickie," Punk said softly.

Several seconds – it may have been longer, but the Doctor was too spellbound to tell – passed before he released her and trudged out the door,.

The moment she was alone again, Mickie ran her hands through her hair and looked up at the ceiling, trying to come to terms with everything she had heard. She could still feel the light pressure of his hand in hers, his touch strangely warm, the lingering memory causing her skin to tingle a little. She knew she'd treated Punk rather harshly, but how could she possibly tell him that every time she looked into his eyes and saw the pain and anger and regret in them, it was like looking into a mirror? That she knew exactly what he was going through; that like him, she was constantly plagued by the suffocating presence of guilt…

More importantly, more absurdly, how in the world could she tell him that with each visit, her concern for him was having less and less to do with their doctor-patient relationship?

* * *

"So MVP over here is going to run your betting pool," Ric was saying to Punk. "His job is to make enough money as possible in your name."

MVP nodded. "Yep. I'm going to double all bets against you. Wanna see the looks on their faces each time they pay up."

Punk had to smile a little at that. These guys really had faith in him. Way too much. Oh well. At least if he did die, they'd have some money in their pockets. They would deserve it after trying to help him.

But he couldn't think like that.

"Back to potential opponents," Cena said abruptly, and for a second, the Straight Edge inmate wondered if he had heard his thoughts. "Apparently Orton's little cockroaches are joining TD this year." He gestured towards Rhodes and DiBiase, who were currently and loudly singing Orton's praises to anyone who would listen. "They good, but they won't make it past the round of 32. They'll be too busy trying to protect Orton. Pathetic, 'cause Orton will act like they never existed once they're dead."

Punk watched Flair discussing with Batista and MVP and leaned closer to Cena. "Should I trust him?" he asked quietly, searching his cellmate's face. "Flair, I mean."

Cena thought about it and shrugged. "The stakes are higher than ever before, and he did train three of the last four winners."

And Randy Orton had two of those wins. Damn it. "And why isn't he training Orton now?"

"Heard they had this big bust-up the night before the last final. No one really knows what happened but the main story is Orton threatened to off the old man."

Great. For all Punk cared, Flair was still looking over his shoulder for Orton. This was the last thing he needed to worry about.

"But if you really want to get out of here?" Cena went on. "Then yes, you should trust him."

Punk was pondering Cena's words when someone caught his eye. He spotted Dr. James at the cafeteria entrance, talking to JBL. Punk watched her, spellbound. She was beautiful, more beautiful than she probably even realized. She was stirring feelings inside of him that hadn't surfaced since Maria died. Feelings he was trying to cast out and failing woefully.

_You're my patient, I'm supposed to care. _Like it was nothing more than a tedious duty for her, which, when it came down to it, it was. At the same time, he had _sensed_ the attraction between them. He hadn't missed the way her cheeks had turned pink when he took her hand. There was something nameless between them; nameless but present all the same. Would he have the opportunity to find out what it was, especially now that he was essentially on borrowed time? Would she even let him?

He didn't really know the answers to those questions, but he knew he had to start off somewhere. And extending that borrowed time was the perfect place to begin.

* * *

_**A/N: Sorry if this felt like a filler. Please review and thanks for sticking with me.**_


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